
Book Q 7 



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James Hogg. 



THE QUEEN'S WAKE 



LEGENDARY POEM. 



By JAMES HOGG. 



Be mine to read the visions old 
Which thy awakening bards have told ; 
And whilst they meet my tranced view, 
Hold each strange tale devoutly true.'— CoZZiwA 



WILLIAM AND EOBEET CHAMBERS 

LONDON AND EDINBURGH. 
1872 






EainbuFi^h : 
Printed by W. and 11. Chambera. 






MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 



James Hogg, one of those who have proved 

'* The might that slumbers in a peasant's soul," 

was bom on the 25th of January 1772, in a cottage on the banks 
of the Ettrick, in Selkirkshire, a district peculiarly wild and 
mountainous. He was the descendant of a race long settled as 
shepherds in the same region. Robert Hogg and Margaret Laid- 
law, his parents, had four sons, of whom James was the second, 
and all of whom were trained to the pastoral life, the father hav- 
ing been elevated above the condition of a shepherd only for a 
short time, to return to it with the loss of all his little earnings. 
This unfortunate event happened when James Hogg was but in 
his sixth year, and, accordingly, all his authentic recollections of 
early life have reference to the shieling on the farm of Ettrick 
House, where his father settled after his misfortunes, having 
received the charge of a flock of sheep from the tenant of that 
farm, Mr Brydon of Crosslee. 

Like many other men who have arrived at distinction, Hogg 
seems to have been more indebted to his mother than his father 
for the fosterage, if not the possession, of those talents which he 
displayed. "His mother, Margaret Laidlaw," says a memoir of 
him in the Edinburgh Magazine, ' ' was, like himself, a self-taught 
genius. Her mother had died while she was yet young. Herself 
of an imaginative and enthusiastic mind, she soon discovered in 
her son James a kindred spirit, and labom^ed in its cultivation 
with an earnestness greatly honourable to her, and to which per- 
haps the world is indebted for the Queen's Wake." 

All the regular school education which he received, amounted 
to a few months in a parochial seminarj^ and a winter- quarter 
under the tutor of a neighbouring farmer's children. By theso 



4 MEMOIR OP THE AUTHOR. 

means he became aMe to read the Bible, and also learnt to " de- 
file horribly several sheets of paper with copy-lines, every letter 
of Avhich was nearly an inch in length." Such, as he himself 
relates, was the whole extent of his scholastic education, and 
part of it was acquired in the intervals of his service as a cow- 
herd, to which he had been put at the early age of seven. In addi- 
tion to the brief periods now stated, he " was never another day 
at any school whatever. In all," he says, " I spent about half 
a-year at school." 

This was certainly no very auspicious beginning for any one 
destined to tread the paths of literature. But his mother's ballad- 
recitations gave an early stimulus to his young fancy, and he 
himself assures us that love came at a most precocious period to 
kindle the spark of poetry within. The following passage in his 
autobiography contains, we imagine, the materials for a pretty 
pastoral painting. " When only eight years of age, I was sent 
out to a height called Broad- heads with a rosy-cheeked maiden 
to herd a flock of new- weaned lambs, and I had my mischievous 
cows to herd besides. But, as she had no dog and I had an ex- 
cellent one, I was ordered to keep close bylier. Never was a 
master's order better obeyed. Day after day, I herded the cows 
and the lambs both, and Betty had nothing to do but to sit and 
sew. Then we dined together every day at a well near to the 
Shiel-sike head, and after dinner I laid my head down on her 
lap, covered her bare feet with my plaid, and pretended to fall 
sound asleep. One day I heard her say to herself, ' Poor little 
laddie ! he's juist tired to death,' and then I wept till I was afraid 
she would feel the warmi tears trickling on her knee. I wished 
my master, who was a handsome young man, would fall in love 
with her and marry her, wondering how he could be so blind and 
stupid as not to do it. But I thought if I were he, I would know 
well what to do." 

Passing from the service of one farmer to another, and carrying 
all his earnings regularly to his parents, James Hogg reached the 
age of fourteen. This proved an epoch in his life, as he then 
bought, for five shillings, an old fiddle, an instriunent which con- 
tinued to furnish amusement to him to the hour of his death. As 
he advanced towards manhood, he procured emplojinent as a 
shepherd, and served successively in that capacity at Singlee, 
Elibank upon Tweed, and Willenslee or Williamslee, in the vale 
of Leithen. *« It was while serving at the latter place (says he, , 
in the eighteenth year of my age, that I first got a perusal of The 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTII'MI. 5 

Li/c and Adventures of Sir William Wallace, and The Gentle Shep- 
herd; and though immoderatel j' fond of them, yet (Nvliat you will 
think remarkable in one who hath since «labbled so much in verse) 
I could not help regretting deeply that they were not in prose, 
tliat every body might have understood them ; or, I thought if 
they had been in the sj\mc kind of metre with the Psalms, I could 
have borne with them. The truth is, I made exceedingly slow 
progress in reading them. The late Mrs Laidlaw of Willenslee 
took some notice of me, and frequently gave me books to read 
while tending the ewes ; these were chiefly theological. The only 
one that I remember any thing of, is Bishop DurneVs Theory 0/ 
the Confaffration of the Earth. Happy it was for me that I did 
not understand it ! for the little of it that I did understand had 
nearly overturned my brain altogether. All the day I was pon- 
dering on the grand millenium, and the reign of the saints; and all 
the night dreaming of new heavens and a new earth — the stars in 
horror, and the world in flames ! INIrs Laidlaw also gave me some- 
times the newspapers, which I pored on with great earnestness — 
beginning at the date, and reading straight on, through adver- 
tisements of houses and lands, balm of Gilead, and every tiling; 
and, after all, was often no wiser than when I began. To give 
you some farther idea of the progress I had made in literature — 
I was about this time obliged to write a letter to my elder brother, 
and having never drawn a pen for such a number of years, I had 
actually forgotten how to make sundry letters of the alphabet ; 
these I had either to print, or to patch up the words in the best 
way I could without them." 

Mr Laidlaw of Blackhouse was the next master of Hogg, and 
the one who at once showed him the greatest kindness, and en- 
couraged to the greatest degreo the peculiar talents with which . 
he had been gifted.* Mr Laidlaw's library, a respectable one, 
was placed at the command of Hogg, and served to a certain ex- 
tent to remedy the early defects of his education. It was whilo 
in this position that the subject of our memoir, in the year 1706, 
at the age of twenty four, first began to write verses. " For se- 
veral years my compositions consisted wholly of songs and ballads 

* William Laidlaw, son of the good farmer, and afterwards 
the intimate friend of Walter Scott, became also the yoimg 
shepherd's confidimt and patron, recognising and appreciating 
his abilities 



6 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

made up for the lasses to sing in chorus; and a proud man I was 
when I first heard the rosy nymphs chanting my uncouth strains, 
and jeering me by the still dear appellation of ' Jamie the poeter.' " 
His early compositions were written on a few sheets of paper 
stitched together, the ink used in the process being contained in 
a small vial fixed in a hole in the poet's waistcoat. Latterly, he 
almost always used a slate for receiving the first draughts of his 
verses, and transferred them thence to paper, making few or no 
subsequent corrections. 

From the influence of his mother's peculiar communications to 
his young ear, and the general tenor of the traditional knowledge 
of the country, it might have been anticipated that the earliest 
efforts of consequence made by the muse of Hogg, would be in 
the direction of ballad-songs. In the year 1797, he heard for the 
first time of Burns, and he informs us that the poem of Tam o' 
Shanter, when read to him by an acquaintance, made a deep impres- 
sion on his mind. " I was delighted," he says ; " I was far more 
than delighted — I was ravished !" In a short time, he could repeat 
the whole poem by heart. The position of Bums, descended, like 
himself, from the peasantry of the country, struck the youthful 
shepherd forcibly, and he began to nourish dreams of succeeding 
to the mantle and poetical fame of the Ayrshire bard. It was not 
long after that a song written by him, under the title of *' Donald 
Macdonald," in which he gave a forcible picture of the warlike 
and patriotic sentiments then animating the Highland fencible 
regiments, attained to great popularity, and found its way into 
print. This, however, was an event of no real consequence to the 
poet himself, in as much as, while it delighted thousands, none 
knew that he was the author, excepting his few companions. 
Two or three years afterwards, "having attended (he saj's) the "^ 
Edinburgh market one Monday, with a number of sheep for sale, 
and being unable to dispose of them all, I put the remainder into 
a park until the market on Wednesday. Not knowing how to 
pass the interim, it came into my head that I would write a poem 
or two from my memory and get them printed. The thought had 
no sooner struck me than it was put in practice ; and I was 
obliged to select, not the best poems, but those that I remembered 
best. I wrote several of these during my short stay, and gave 
them all to a person to print at my expense ; and having sold off 
my sheep on Wednesday morning, I returned to the Forest. I 
saw no more of my poems until I received word that there were 
one thousand copies thrown off. I knew no more about publisli- 



MEMOIR OP THE AUTHOR. 7 

ing than the man of the moon ; and the only motive that influ- 
enced me was, the gratification of my vanity by seeing my works 
in print. But no sooner did the first copy come to hand, than 
my eyes were open to the folly of my conduct ; for, on comparing 
it with the manuscript, which I had at home, I found many of 
the stanzas omitted, others misplaced, and typographical errors 
abounding in every page." 

In 1801, the same year in which this publication took place, lie 
had the honour of forming the acquaintance of Sir Walter Scott. 
The " Shirra," as Scott's official situation in Selkirkshire caused 
him to be univers:illy named, had heard of the poetical rustic, and 
of the stores of old ballads possessed by his mother. Being then 
engaged in compiling the Border Minstrelsy, Sir Walter visited 
Ettrick House, where the shepherd resided, and an acquaintance 
was formed, to which, unquestionably, Hogg owed much of his 
after success in life. The popularity of the iMinstrclsy of the 
Border induced him to attempt some imitations of the ancient 
ballad style, and the result was *' The Mountain Bard," the first 
of his better works. This was published by Constable, to whom 
Scott had introduced his pastoral protegd. The same publisher 
gave to the world, about the same time, the well-known treatise, 
•• Hogg on Sheep." The fair success of these works placed the 
Ettrick Shepherd (as he was now called) in circumstances which 
he himself adverts to in the following candid terms. " Being now 
master of nearly three hundred pounds, I went perfectly mad. I 
first took one pasture farm, at exactly one half more than it was 
worth, having been cheated into it by a great rascal, who meant 
to rob me of all I had, and which, in the course of one year, he 
effected by dint of law. But, in the mean time, having taken 
another extensive farm, I found myself fairly involved in business 
far above my capital. It would have required at least one thou- 
sand pounds for every one hundred pounds that I possessed to 
have managed all I had taken in hand ; so I got every da}' out of 
one strait and confusion into a worse. I blundered and struggled 
on for three years between these two places, giving up all thoughts 
of poetry or literature of any kind." 

Ruined ultimately as a store-farmer, Hogg also foimd that the 
character which he had obtained for imprudence presented a 
serious bar in the way of his return even to the humble condition 
of a servant. In short, he was compelled to throw his plaid about 
his shoulders, and betake himself to Edinburgh, there to plunge 
into all the difQculties of a literary life. His first undertaking was 



8 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

" The Forest Minstrel," a volume of short poetical pieces pub- 
lished by Constable. Two-thirds of these were his own; the 
others were from the pen of Mr T. M. Cunningham, brother of 
Allan, and some other friends. William Laidlaw contributed the 
exquisitely pathetic piece of Lucy's Flitting. The Forest Minstrel 
did not pass unadmired by the public, but was totally unproduc- 
tive of money to the principal author. 

*' The next undertaking (says the ^vrite^ of the memoir for- 
merly alluded to) in which Mr Hogg engaged was the Sjj?/, a 
weekly paper, in its form and mode of publication, at least, in 
imitation of the Spectator. This was the most extraordinary of 
all his enterprises. He received little assistance in the progress 
of the work, greatly more than one-half of the papers being 
written 'by himself, and almost all the poetry ; and strange as it 
may appear, in spite of the laugh of the fashionable circles, and 
the sneer of the critics, great and small, it maintained its ground 
for twelve months, and increased in popularity to the end." As 
usual, however, the work did little or nothing for the improve- 
ment of the writer's circumstances. 

The life of Hogg at this time was a very strange one. Among 
other ways of spending his time, we learn that he was in the habit 
of attending a weekly debating society, called the Forum, where 
the rusticity of his language, and general naivete of his manner, 
gave much amusement. At this period of his career, among the 
most respectable of his friends were Mr James Gray of the High 
School, and Mr John Grieve, a merchant in Edinburgh, and one 
who proved the perfect compatibility of elegant literary tastes 
with industrious business habits. These gentlemen saw some- 
thing above what is common in him, and he ultimately, in the 
year 1813, justified -all their prepossessions by the production of 
** The Queen's Wake." This was first published by a young 
bookseller of the name of Goldie. Immediately after its appear- 
ance, Hogg, who then lived at Deanhaugh, near Edinburgh, went 
into town with a beating heart. He met Mr William Dunlop, a 
spirit-merchant, long and well known in Edinburgh, and noted 
for the broad vernacular in which he delighted to speak. Hogg 
thus describes the rencontre : " ' Ye useless poetical guse that ye 
are,' said he, ' what hae ye been doing a' this time ?' ' What do- 
ing, Willie ! what do you mean ?' 'Ye hae been pestering us wi* 
fourpenny papers an' daft shilly-shally sangs, an' bletherin' an' 
speakin' i' the Fonim, an' yet had stuff in ye to produce a thing 
like this !' ' Ay, Willie,' said I, ' have ye seen my new beuk I * 



MKMOIR OF THE AUTUOR. 9 

♦Ay, faith, that I have, man; and it has cheatet mc out o' a 
night's sleep. Ye liac hit the right nail on the head now. Yon's 
the very thing, sir.' ' I'm very glad to hear ye say sae, Willie ; 
but what do ye ken about poems ?' ' Never ye mind how I ken ; 
I gi'e you my word for it, yon's the thing that will do. If ye hadna 
made a fool o' yersel' afore, man, yon wad hae sold better than 
ever a book sold. Od, wha wad hae thought there was as muckle 
in that sheep's-head o' yours?' And with that he went away, 
laughing and miscalling me over his shoulder." The public con- 
firmed this plainly-expressed decision of I\Ir Dunlop. In truth, 
Hogg had now hit on a decidedly happy and favourable mode of 
displaying his peculiar talents, and their existence was at once 
discerned and acloiowledged by the public. Three editions of 
the Queen's Wake appeared in quick succession ; but, with what 
he calls his usual luck, Hogg, according to his own showing, 
did not receive the full pecuniary recompence to which he was 
entitled, through the difficulties in which his bookseller was 
involved. ]Mr Goldie, however, afterwards averred that the poet 
greatly overrated, to say the least of it, his losses on this occa- 
sion ; and such really appears, to a certain extent, to have been 
the case. 

Mr William Blackwood, the bookseller, having taken a leading 
part in the arrangement of Mr Goldie's affairs, became, through 
that circumstance, acquainted with Hogg, and thenceforward 
was his chief publisher. When Mr Blackwood, some years after- 
wards, set up his celebrated magazine, Hogg was one of his first 
contributors, being the -WTiter, amongst other things, of the first 
draught of the Chaklce Manuscript, a paper which excited much 
local attention by the freedom with which it handled IMr Con- 
stable and his literary friends. At this time, also, the Shepherd 
formed a friendship which lasted for life with Professor Wilson 
and Mr Lockhart. Besides numerous contributions to the maga- 
zines (particularly Mr Blackwood's) and annuals, he produced, in 
the six years following 1813, the poetical works entitled " The 
Pilgrims of the Sun," " The Hunting of Badlewe," " Mador 
of the Moor," " The Poetic Mirror," " Dramatic Tales," •* Sacred 
Melodies," •* The Border Garland," and " The Jacobite Relics;" 
with the prose tales called " The Brownie of Bodsbeck," and 
'• W^inter Evening Tales." 

All these works were productive of more or less emolument to 
him, and some of thc-m attained a temporary popularity. From 
1809 to 1814 he resided in Edinbiu-gh, but in the latter year a gene* 



10 MEMOIR OP THE AUTHOR. 

rous patron changed his condition in a material degree. " I then 
received," says he, "a letter from the late Duke Charles of Buc- 
cleugh, hy the hands of his chamberlain, presenting me %vith the 
small farm of Altrive Lake, in the wilds of Yarrow. The boon 
was quite unsolicited and unexpected, and never was a more wel- 
come one conferred on an unfortunate wight, as it gave me once 
more a habitation among my native moors and streams, where 
each face was that of a friend, and each house was a home, as well 
as a residence for life to my aged father. The letter was couched 
in the kindest terms, and informed me that I had long had a secret 
and sincere friend whom I knew not of, in his late duchess, who 
had in her lifetime solicited such a residence for me. In the 
letter he said, ' the rent shall be nominal ;* but it has not even 
been nominal, for such a thing as rent has never once been men- 
tioned. 

I then began and built a handsome cottage on my new farm, 
and forthwith made it my head-quarters. But not content with 
this, having married in 1820 Miss Margaret Phillips, youngest 
daughter of Mr Phillips, late of Longbridge-moor, in Annandale, 
and finding that I had then in the hands of Mr Murray, Mr 
Blackwood, Messrs Oliver and Boyd, and Messrs Longman and 
Co., debts due, or that would soon be due, to the amount of a 
thousand pounds, I determined once more to farm on a larger 
scale, and expressed my wish to the Right Honourable Lord 
Montague, head trustee on his nephew's domains. His lordship 
readily ofiFered me the farm of Mount-Benger, which adjoined 
my own. At first I determined not to accept of it, as it had ruined 
two well qualified farmers in the preceding six years ; but was 
persuaded at last by some neighbours, in opposition to my OAvn 
judgment, to accept of it, on the plea that the farmers on the 
Buccleugh estate were never suffered to be great losers, and that, 
at all events, if I could not make the rent, I could write for it. 
So, accordingly, I took a lease of the farm for nine years. 

I called in my debts, which were all readily paid, and amounted 
to within a few pounds of one thousand ; but at that period the 
sum was quite inadequate, the price of ewes bordering on thirty 
shillings per head. The farm required stocking to the amount of 
one thousand sheep, twenty cows, five horses, farming utensils 
of all sorts, crop, manure, and, moreover, draining, fencing, and 
building, so that I soon found I had not half enough of money ; 
and though I realised by writing, in the course of the next two 
years, L.750, besides smaller sums paid in cash, yet I got into 
difficulties at the very first, out of which I could never redeem 



MEMOIR OP THE AUTHOR. 1 1 

myself Ull the end of the lease, at which time live stock of aU 
kinds having declined one half in value, the si>eculation left mo 
once more without a sixpence in the world — and at the age of 
sixty it is fully late enough to begin it anew. 

It will bo consolatory, however, to my friends, to be assured 
that none of these reverses ever preyed in the smallest degree on 
my spirits. As long as I did all for the best, and was conscious 
that no man could ever accuse me of dishonesty, I laughed at the 
futility of my own calculations, and let my earnings go as they 
came, amid contentment and happiness, determined to make more 
money as soon as possible, although it should go the same way." 

These conlessions display the character of the man in genuine 
colours. It is necessary to say so, for, otherwise, it might be 
doubted if any man would have tiiken a farm with the almost 
certain prospect before him of having to pay its rent out of re- 
sources unconnected with itself. Not less might it be doubted 
that any one could be regardless of the futility of those calcula- 
tions on which his bread depended, if he merely retained tlie 
consciousness of upright intention. Such, really, was the mind 
of the Ettrick Shepherd, an union of uncommon poetical talents 
with singularly obscure perceptions and judgment. During 
the years he spent at Blount -Bengcr, a young family had risen 
around him, and in the society of his wife, a prudent, modest, 
and amiable woman, he not only enjoyed a high measure of do- 
mestic happiness, but had the benefit of a friendly counsellor, who 
was fortunately able in some measure to make up for his ovm 
want of foresight and calculation. He now retired to his little 
farm of Altrive, designing to live upon what it produced to him, 
with the addition of his literary gains. Before this period, he had 
become conspicuous from his frequent introduction as an actor 
and interlocutor in the series of whimsical papers entitled Xoct^s 
Ambrosiancp, which appeared from time to time in Blackwood's 
]\ragazine. Far beyond the sphere within which his poetical re- 
putation was confined, he was now known for his eccentric habits 
and style of conversation, and endeared from the bonhomuii>! 
which was made to shine through all the humours attributed to 
him. During his residence at Mount-Benger, and subsequently 
while living at Altrive, he paid frequent visits to Edinburgh, 
partly on the score of business, and partly to enjoy the society of 
his friends, who usually flocked about him in gieat numbers. Ho 
continued to exercise his pen actively, partly in prose and partly 
in verse, and thus obtained an income, upon the whole, sufficient 



12 MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 

to maintain comfort, though it could never be described as regu- 
lar. He had, while at Mount-Benger, published a succession of 
rustic tales, under the titles of "Three Perils of Man," and 
*' Three Perils of Woman," and " Confessions of a Fanatic:" to 
these were now added the ** Shepherd's Calendar," " Tales of the 
AVars of Montrose," and *' The Queer Book," together with a 
multitude of shorter pieces contributed to annuals and magazines. 
A long narrative poem, under the name of '* Queen Hynde," ap- . 
peared in 1826, but failed to attract attention. 

In 1831 , the success of the new and cheap edition of the Waverley 
Novels suggested to Mr Hogg a similar re-issue of his own prose 
fictions. He proceeded to London in order to negotiate for such 
a publication with Messrs Cochrane and Macrone, who had re- 
cently commenced business as publishers. In the great city, this 
simple child of the Selkirkshire hills found himself a lion of no 
small magnitude, and he was thus induced to enter largely into 
miscellaneous society. The attentions which he received were 
to him a source of immense pleasure, and he ever after spoke of 
this as the proudest era of his life. An arrangement being made 
with the publishers, the first volume of *' The Altrive Tales" 
appeared in spring 1832 ; but the series at that point was stopped 
by the almost immediate failure of the publishers. This was a 
severe blow, or would have been so to most men ; but to the 
Ettrick Shepherd, it never perhaps occasioned one gloomy hour. 
He continued to write, as before, for periodical works, and to 
realise occasional sums from these fruits of his pen ; he also gave 
to the world one separate volume, and that a very odd one, styled 
** Lay Sermons." 

James Hogg was at all periods of his life a convivial man. He 
delighted to meet his friends, and to regale them with his songs 
sung by himself, which were usually esteemed a treat of no or- 
dinary kind. His constitution was naturally so strong, that his 
indulgences never seemed to have the least effect upon it, and 
many wondered to see him pass his sixtieth year with a robust- 
ness of frame and a ruddiness of complexion which most young 
men might have envied. At length he began to show slight 
symptoms of declining health, which ultimately proved to arise 
from a latent affection of the liver, and, on the 21st of Novem- 
ber 1835, he breathed his last. The bard of Ettrick lies in the 
churchyard of that district, as yet without a stone to point out 
the spot. 

The literary reputation of James Hogg rests upon the poem 



MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR. 13 

here reprinted, and a few of his songs, for, cut of all bis many 
compositions in prose and verse, scarcely any besides these has 
permanently engaged public attention. It was in the regions of 
the ideal, in whatever was remote from the familiar, whether by 
distance of time or by an elevation into the regions of the super- 
natural, that his genius found its fitting emplojinent : when he 
took his subjects from ordinary life, he produced such persons 
and scenes as no hmnan being ever saw — it was then that he 
was least natural. The romantic sweetness of the present poem 
will probably ensure permanency to his name amongst the poets 
who have distingiiished the opening of the nineteenth centurj'. 
His personal character was a singular mixture ; but, whatever 
v/eaknesses attached to it, it included the properties of true 
kindness and integrity ; and we are bound to record to his praise, 
that he secured many friends, and died without an enemy. 

In person, James Hogg was a little above the middle size, and 
of a stout well-set figure. His hair was light, and his complexion 
ruddy; while, without indicating much imaginative genius, his 
features were pleasing, and corresponded with his character as a 
robust nursling of the hills. His ordinary conversation showed 
less of fancy than was usually anticipated, though at times 
happy flashes gave assurance of the poet. 



To the first edition of the Queen's Wake was affixed the 
following dedication by the author : — 

"to 
HER ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES 

A SHEPHERD 

AMONG 
THE MOUKTALN'S OF SCOTLAND 

DEDICATES 

THIS poem:' 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

INTRODUCTION, . . . . .17 

NIGHT THE FIRST — .... 30 

MALCOLM OF LORN— THE FIRST BARD'S SONG, 31 

YOUNG KENNEDY— THE SECOND BARD'S SONG, 39 

THE WITCH OF FIFE— THE EIGHTH BARD'S SONG, 48 

NIGHT THE SECOND— . , . .68 

GLEN-AVIN — THE NINTH BARD'S SONG, . 60 

OLD DAVID — THE TENTH BARD'S SONG, . 6Q 

MACGREGOR— THE ELEVENTH BARD'S SONG, 81 

EARL WALTER — THE TWELFTH BARD's SONG, . 85 

KILMENY — THE THIRTEENTH BARD'S SONG, 95 

NIGHT THE THIRD— ..... 105 

MARY SCOTT— THE FOURTEENTH BARD'S SONG, 108 

KING EDWARD'S DREAM— THE FIFTEENTH BARD^S 

SONG, . " . . . . .129 

DUMLANRIG — THE SIXTEENTH BARD'S SONG, 134 

THE ABBOT M'KINNON— -THE SEVENTEENTH 

bard's song, ..... 150 

CONCLUSION, ... . . 159 

NOTES, ♦ . . . . .171 



THE QUEEN'S WAKE. 



INTRODUCTION. 

Now burst, ye winter clouds that lower, 

Fling from your folds the piercing shower ; 

Sing to the tower and leafless tree, 

Ye cold winds of adversity ; 

Your blights, your chilling influence, shed 

On wareless heart and houseless head ; 

Your ruth or fury I disdain, 

I've found my Mountain Lyre again ! 

Come to ray heart, my only stay ! 
Companion of a happier day ! 
Thou gift of Heaven ! thou pledge of good ! 
Harp of the mountain and the wood ! 
I little thought, when first I tried 
Thy notes by lone Saint Mary's side — 
When in a deep, untrodden den, 
I found thee in the braken glen — 
I little thought that idle toy 
Should e'er become my only joy ! 

A maiden's youthful smiles had wove 
Around my heart the toils of love. 
When first thy magic wires I rung, 
And on the breeze thy numbers flung. 

B 



18 THE queen's wake. 

The fervid tear play'd in mine eye, 
I trembled, wept, and wonder'd why. 
Sweet was the thrilling ecstacy : 
I know not if 'twas love or thee. 

Ween'd not my heart, when youth had flown, 
Friendship would fade, or fortune frown ; 
When pleasure, love, and mirth w^ere past, 
That thou should'st prove my all at last ! 
Jeer'd by conceit and lordly pride, 
I flung my soothing harp aside ; 
With wayward fortune strove a while, 
Wreck'd in a world of self and guile. 
Again I sought the braken hill ; 
Again sat musing by the rill ; 
My wild sensations all were gone, 
And only thou w^ert left alone. 
Long hast thou in the moorland lain. 
Now welcome to my heart again ! 

The russet weed of mountain grey 
No more shall round thy border play ; 
No more the brake-flowers, o'er thee piled, 
Shall mar thy tones and measures wild. 
Harp of the Forest, thou shalt be 
Fair as the bud on forest tree ! 
Sweet be thy strains, as those that swell 
In Ettrick's green and fairy dell ; 
Soft as the breeze of falling even. 
And purer than the dews of heaven. 

Of minstrel honours, now no more ; 
Of bards, who sung in days of yore ; 
Of gallant chiefs in courtly guise ; 
Of ladies' smiles, of ladies' eyes ; 
Of royal feasts and obsequies ; 
When Caledon, with look severe, 
Saw beauty's hand her sceptre bear- 
By cliff and haunted wild I'll sing, 
Responsive to thy dulcet string. 



THE queen's wake. l9 

When wanes the circling year away, 
When scarcely smiles the doubtful day, 
Fair daughter of Dun Edin, say, 
Hast thou not heard, at midnight deep, 
Soft music on thy slumbers creep ? 
At such a time, if careless thrown 
Thy slender form on couch of down. 
Hast thou not felt, to nature true. 
The tear steal from thine eye so blue ? 
If then thy guiltless bosom strove 
In blissful dreams of conscious love. 
And even shrunk from proffer bland 
Of lover's visionary hand. 
On such ecstatic dream when brake 
The music of the midnight wake. 
Hast thou not ween'd thyself on high. 
Listening to angels' melody, 
'Scaped from a world of cares away. 
To dream of love and bliss for aye ? 

The dream dispell'd, the music gone, 
Hast thou not, sighing, all alone, 
Proffer'd thy vows to Heaven, and then 
Blest the sweet wake, and slept again I 

Then list, ye maidens, to my lay. 
Though old the tale and past the day ; 
Those wakes, now play'd by minstrels poor. 
At midnight's darkest, chillest hour — 
Those humble wakes, now scorn'd by all, 
Were first begun in courtly hall. 
When royal Mary, blithe of mood, 
Kept holiday at Holy rood. 

Scotland, involved in factious broils, 
Groan'd deep beneath her woes and toils. 
And look'd o'er meadow, dale, and lea, 
For many a day her queen to see ; 
Hoping that then her woes would cease, 
And all her valleys smile in peace. 



20 THE quee:t's wake. 

The spring was past, the summer gone, 
Still vacant stood the Scottish throne : 
But scarce had autumn's mellow hand 
Waved her rich banner o'er the land, 
When rang the shouts, from tower and tree 
That Scotland's Queen was on the sea ! 
Swift spread the news o'er down and dale. 
Swift as the lively autumn gale ; 
Away, away, it eclio'd still. 
O'er many a moor and Highland hill, 
Till rang each glen and verdant plain. 
From Cheviot to the northern main. 

Each bard attuned the loyal lay, 
And for Dun Edin hied away ; 
Each harp was strung in woodland bower, 
In praise of beauty's bonniest flower. 
The chiefs forsook their ladies fair. 
The priest his beads and books of prayer, 
The farmer left his harvest day. 
The shepherd all his flocks to stray, 
The forester forsook the wood, 
And hasted on to Holyrood. 

After a youth by woes o'ercast, 
After a thousand sorrows past, 
The lovely Mary once again 
Set foot upon her native plain ; 
Knelt on the pier with modest grace, 
And turn'd to heaven her beauteous face. 
'Twas then the caps in air were blended, 
A thousand thousand shouts ascended, 
Shiver'd the breeze around the throng. 
Grey barrier cliffs the peals prolong ; 
And every tongue gave thanks to Heaven, 
That Mary to their hopes was given. 

Her comely form and graceful mien 
Bespoke the lady and the queen ; 
The woes of one so fair and young, 
Moved every heart and every tongue. 



IHE queen's tvake. 21 

Driven from lier home, a helpless child, 

To brave the winds and billows wild ; 

An exile bred in realms afar, 

Amid commotions, broils, and war. 

In one short year, her hopes all cross'd— 

A parent, husband, kingdom lost ! 

And all ere eighteen years had shed 

Their honours o'er her royal head. 

For such a queen, the Stuarts' heir — 

A queen so courteous, young, and fair — 

Who would not every foe defy ! 

V/ho would not stand — who would not die ! 

Light on her aii'y steed she sprung, 
Around with golden tassels hung ; 
No chieftain there rode half so free, 
Or half so light and gracefully. 
How sweet to see her ringlets pale 
Wide waving in the southland gale. 
Which t?irough the broom-wood blossoms flew, 
To fan her cheeks of rosy hue ! 
Whene'er it heaved her bosom's screen. 
What beauties in her form were seen ! 
And when her courser's mane it swung, 
A thousand silver bells were rung. 
A sight so fair, on Scottish plain, 
A Scot shall never see again ! 

When Mary turn'd her wond'ring eyes 
On rocks that seem'd to prop the skies ; 
On palace, park, and battled pile ; 
On lake, on river, sea, and isle ; 
O'er woods and meadows bathed in dew, 
To distant mountains wild and blue ; 
She thought the isle that gave her birth, 
The sweetest, wildest land on earth. 

Slowly she ambled on her way 
Amid her lords and ladies gay. 
Priest, abbot, layman, all were there, 
And presbyter with look severe. 



THE QUEEN S WAE:E. 

There rode tlie lords of France and Spain, 
Of England, Flanders, and Lorraine, 
While serried thousands round them stoo ], 
From shore of Leith to Holyrood. 

Though Mary's heart was light as air, 
To find a home so wild and fair ; 
To see a gather'd nation by, 
And rays of joy from every eye ; 
Though frequent shouts the welkin broke, 
Though courtiers bow'd and ladies spoke, 
An absent look they oft could trace 
Deep settled on her comely face. 
Was it the thought, that all aloue 
She must support a rocking throne ? — 
That Caledonia's rugged land 
Might scorn a lady's weak command, 
And the red lion's haughty eye 
Scowl at a maiden's feet to lie ? 

No ; 'twas the notes of Scottish song, 
Soft pealing from the countless throng. 
So mellow'd came the distant swell, 
That on her ravish'd ear it fell 
Like dew of heaven at evening close, 
On forest flower or woodland rose. 
For Mary's heart, to nature true, 
The powers of song and music knew : 
But all the choral measures bland, 
Of anthems sung in southern land, 
Appear'd an useless pile of art. 
Unfit to sway or melt the heart. 
Compared with that which floated by— 
Her simple native melody. 

As she drev/ nigh the abbey stile. 
She halted, rein'd, and bent the while : 
She heard the Caledonian lyre 
Pour forth its notes of runic fire ; 
But scarcely caught the ravish'd queen 
The minstrel's song that flow'd between ; 



THE queen's wake. 23 

Entranced upon the stra.iu slie liung — 
'Tvvas thus the grey-hair'd minstrel sung : — 

^6e Sons. 

*^ Oh, lady dear ! fair is thy noon. 
But man is like the inconstant moon : 
Last night she smiled o'er lawn and lea ; 
That moon will change, and so will he. 

Thy time, dear lady, 's a passing shower ; 
Thy beauty is but a fading flower : 
Watch thy young bosom and maiden eye, 
For the shower must fall and the flow'i^t die." 

" What ails my queen 1" said good Argyle, 
^^ Why fades upon her cheek the smile ? 
Say, rears your steed too fierce and higli ? 
Or sits your golden seat awry f' 

" Ah ! no, my lord ! this noble steed, 
Of Rouen's calm and generous breed, 
Has borne me over hill and plain. 
Swift as the dun-deer of the Seine. 
But such a wild and simple lay 
Pour'd from the harp of minstrel grey, 
My every sense away it stole. 
And sway'd a while my raptured soul. 
Oh, say, my lord (for you must know 
What strains along your valleys flow, 
And all the hoards of Highland lore)^ 
Was ever song so sweet before ?" 

Replied the earl, as round he flung — 
" Feeble the strain that minstrel sung ! 
My royal dame, if once you heard 
The Scottish lay from Highland bard, 
Then might you say, in raptures meet, 
No song was ever half so sweet. 
It nerves the arm of warrior wight 
To deeds of more than mortal might ; 



24 THE queen's wake. 

'Twill make the maid, in all lier cLarms, 
Fall weeping in her lover's arms. 
'Twill charm the mermaid from the deep. 
Make mountain oaks to bend and weep, 
Thrill every heart with horrors dire, 
And shape the breeze to forms of fire. 
When pour'd from greenwood-bower at even, 
'Twill draw the spirits down from heaven ; 
And all the fays that haunt the wood 
To dance around in frantic mood, 
And tune their mimic harps so boon 
Beneath the cliff and midnight moon. 
Ah ! yes, my queen, if once you heard 
The Scottish lay from Highland bard. 
Then might you say, in raptures meet, 
No song was ever half so sweet !" 

Queen Mary lighted in the court — 
Queen Mary join'd the evening's sport; 
Yet though at table all were seen 
To wonder at her air and mien ; 
Though courtiers fawn'd and ladles sung, 
Still in her ear the accents rung — 
'* Watch thy young bosom and maiden eye, 
For the shower must fall and the floweret die" 
And much she wish'd to prove ere long, 
The wondrous powers of Scottish song. 

When next to ride the queen was bound, 
To view the lands and city round. 
On high amid the gather'd crowd, 
A herald thus proclaim'd aloud : — 

" Peace, peace to Scotland's wasted vales, 
To her dark heaths and Highland dales ; 
To her brave sons of warlike mood. 
To all her daughters fair and good ; 
Peace o'er her ruin'd vales shall pour. 
Like beam of heaven behind the shower. 
Let every harp and echo ring ; 
Let maidens smile and poets sing ; 



THE queen's wake. 25 

For love and peace entwined sliall sleep, 
Calm as the moonbeam on the deep ; 
By waving wood and wandering rill, 
On purple heath and Highland hill. 

The soul of warrior stern to charm, 
And bigotry and rage disarm, 
Our queen commands, that every bard 
Due honours have, and high regard. 
If, to his song of rolling fire, 
He join the Caledonian lyre, 
And skill in legendary lore. 
Still higher shall his honours soar. 
For all the arts beneath the heaven. 
That man has found, or God has given, 
None draws the soul so sweet away, 
As music's melting, mystic lay ; 
Slight emblem of the bliss above. 
It soothes the spirit all to love. 

To cherish this attractive art, 
To lull the passions, mend the heart. 
And break the moping zealot's chains. 
Hear what our lovely queen ordains. 

Each Caledonian bard must seek 
Her courtly halls on Easter week. 
That then the royal Wake may be 
Cheer'd by their thrilling minstrelsy. 
No ribaldry the queen must hear. 
No song unmeet for maiden's ear, 
No jest, nor adulation bland. 
But legends of our native land ; 
And he whom most the court regards. 
High be his honours and rewards. 
Let every Scottish bard give ear, 
Let every Scottish bard appear ; 
He then before the court must stand. 
In native garb, with harp in hand. 
At home no minstrel dare to tarry : 
High the behest. — God save Queen Mary !" 



26 ' THE queen's wake. 

Little reck'd they, that countless throng, 
Of music's power or minstrel's song ; 
But crowding their young queen around, 
Whose stately courser paw'd the ground, 
Her beauty more their wonder sway'd, 
Than all the noisy herald said ; 
Judging the proffer all in sport, 
An idle whim of idle court. 
But many a bard preferr'd his prayer ; 
For many a Scottish bard was there : 
Q,uaked each fond heart with raptures strong, 
Each thought upon his harp and song ; 
And turning home without delay, 
Conn'd his wild strain by mountain grey. 

Each glen was sought for tales of old, 
Of luckless love, of warrior bold. 
Of ravish'd maid, or stolen child 
By freakish fairy of the wild ; 
Of sheeted ghost that had reveal'd 
Dark deeds of guilt from man conceal'd ; 
Of boding dreams, of wandering sprite, 
Of dead-lights glimmering through the night. 
Yea, every tale of ruth or weir. 
Could waken pity, love, or fear. 
Were deck'd anew, with anxious pain. 
And sung to. native airs again. 

Alas ! those lays of fire once more 
Are wreck'd 'mid heaps of mouldering lore ! 
And feeble he who dares presume 
That heavenly wake-light to relume. 
But grieved the legendary lay 
Should perish from our land for aye, 
While sings the lark above the wold, 
And all his flocks rest in the fold. 
Fondly he strikes, beside the pen. 
The harp of Yarrow's braken glen. 

December came : his aspect stern 
Glared deadly o'er the mountain cairn 5 



THE QUEEN S WAKE. 

A polar sheet was round him flung, 
And ice-spears at his girdle hung ; 
O'er frigid field and drifted cone^ 
He strode undaunted and alone ; 
Or throned amid the Grampians grey. 
Kept thaws and suns of heaven at bay. 

Not stern December's fierce control 
Could quench the flame of minstrels' soul : 
Little reck'd they, our bards of old, 
Of autumn's showers or winter's cold. 
Sound slept they on the nighted hill, 
Lull'd by the winds or babbling rill : 
Curtain'd within the winter cloud, 
The heath their couch, the sky their shroud. 
Yet theirs the strains that touch the heart, 
Bold, rapid, wild, and void of art. 

Unlike the bards whose milky lays 
Delight in these degenerate days : 
Their crystal spring and heather brown. 
Are changed to wine and couch of down ; 
Efi'eminate as lady gay — 
Such as the bard, so is his lay. 

But then was seen, from every vale. 
Through drifting snows and rattling hail. 
Each Caledonian minstrel true, 
Dress'd in his plaid and bonnet blue, 
With harp across his shoulders slung, 
And music murmuring round his tongue, 
Forcing his way, in raptures high. 
To Holyrood, his skill to try. 

Ah ! when at home the songs they raised, 
When gaping rustics stood and gazed, 
Each bard believed, with ready will, 
Unmatch'd his song, unmatch'd his skill ; 
But when the royal halls appear'd. 
Each aspect changed, each bosom fear'd ; 
And when in court of Holyrood 
Filed harps and bards around him stood. 



28 THE queen's wake. 

His eye emitted cheerless ray, 
His hope, his spirit sunk away : 
There stood the minstrel, but his mind 
Seem'd left in native glen behind. 

Unknown to men of sordid heart 
What joys the poet's hopes impart ; 
Unknown, how his high soul is torn 
By cold neglect or cutting scorn : 
That meteor torch of mental light, 
A breath can quench or kindle bright. 
Oft has that mind, which braved serene 
The shafts of poverty and pain. 
The summer toil, the winter blast, 
Fallen victim to a frown at last. 
Easy the boon he asks of thee ; 
Oh, spare his heart in courtesy ! 

There roU'd each bard his anxious eye, 
Or strode his adversary by. 
No cause was there for names to scan. 
Each minstrel's plaid bespoke his clan ; 
And the blunt Borderer's plain array, 
The bonnet broad and blanket grey. 
Bard sought of bard a look to steal ; 
Eyes measured each from head to heel. 
Much wonder rose that men so famed- 
Men save with rapture never namedj, 
Look'd only so — they could not tell — 
Like other men, and scarce so well. 
Though keen the blast and long the way. 
When twilight closed that dubious day. 
When round the table all were set. 
Small heart had they to talk or eat ; 
Red look askance, blunt whisper low, 
Awkward remark, uncourtly bow, 
Were all that pass'd in that bright throng- 
That group of genuine sons of song. 

One did the honours of the board, 
Who seem'd a courtier or a lord. 



THE QUEEKS WAKE. 29 

Strange his array and speech withal, 

Gael deem'd him southern — southenij Gael. 

Courteous his mien, his accents weak, 

Lady in manner as in make • 

Yet round the board a whisper ran 

That that same gay and simpering man 

A minstrel was of wondrous fame. 

Who from a distant region came. 

To bear the prize beyond the sea 

To the green shores of Italy. 

The wine was served, and, sooth to say, 
Insensibly it stole away. 
Thrice did they drain th' allotted store, 
And wondering skinkers dun for more ; 
Which vanish'd swifter than the first — 
Little ween'd they the poets' thirst. 

Still as that ruddy juice they drain'd, 
The eyes were clear'd, the speech regain'd ; 
And latent sparks of fancy glow'd, 
Till one abundant torrent flow'd, 
Of wit, of humour, social glee. 
Wild music, mirth, and revelry. 

Just when a jest had thrill'd the crowd, 
Just when the laugh was long and loud, 
Enter'd a squire with summons smart — 
That was the knell that pierced the heart — 
*' The court awaits" — he bow'd — was gone — 
Our bards sat changed to busts of stone. 
As ever ye heard the greenwood dell. 
On morn of June one warbled swell, 
If burst the thunder from on high 
How hush'd the woodland melody ! 
Even so our bards sunk at the view 
Of what they wish'd, and what they knew. 

Their numbers given, the lots were cast, 
To fix the names of first and last ; 
Then to the dazzling hall were led 
Poor minstrels less alive than dead. 



30 THE queen's wake. 

There such a scene entranced the view 
As heart of poet never knew. 
'Twas not the flash of golden gear. 
Nor blaze of silver chandelier ; 
Not Scotland's chiefs of noble air. 
Nor dazzling rows of ladies fair ; 
'Twas one enthroned the rest above — 
Sure 'twas the queen of grace and love ! 
Taper the form, and fair the breast 
Yon radiant golden zones invest, 
Where the vex'd rubies blench in death, 
Beneath yon lips and balmy breath. 
Coronal gems of every dye, 
Look dim above yon beaming eye ; 
Yon cheeks outvie the dawning's glow, 
Red shadow'd on a wreath of snow. 

Oft the rapt bard had thought alone 
Of charms by mankind never known— 
Of virgins, pure as opening day. 
Or bosom of the flower of May ; 
Oft dream'd of beings free from stain, 
Of maidens of the emerald main, 
Of fairy dames in grove at even. 
Of angels in the walks of heaven : 
But, nor in earth, the sea, nor sky, 
In fairy dream, nor fancy's eye. 
Vision his soul had ever seen 
Like Mary Stuart, Scotland's Queen. 



NIGHT THE FIRST. 

Hush'd was the court — the courtiers gazed- 
Each eye was bent, each soul amazed. 
To see that group of genuine worth, 
Those far-famed Minstrels of the North. 



THE queen's wake. 31 

So motley wild their garments seem'd ; 
Their eyes, where tints of madness gleam'd, 
Fired with impatience every breast. 
And expectation stood confest. 

Short was the pause : the stranger youth, 
The gaudy minstrel of the south, 
Whose glossy eye and lady form 
Had never braved the northern storm, 
Stent lightly forth — knelt three times low — 
And then, with many a smile and bow, 
Mounted the form amid the ring, 
And rung his harp's responsive string. 
Though true the chords, and mellow-toned, 
Long, long he twisted, long he conn'd ; 
Well pleased to hear his name they knew ; 
" 'Tis Rizzio 1" round in whispers flew. 

Valet with Parma's knight he came. 
An angler in the tides of fame ; 
And oft had tried, with anxious pain. 
Respect of Scotland's Queen to gain. 
Too well his eye, with searching art. 
Perceived her fond, her w^areless heart ; 
And, though unskill'd in Scottish song, 
Her notice he had woo'd so long ; 
With pain by night, and care by day, 
He framed this fervid, flowery lay. 



MALCOLM OF LORN 
THE FIRST bard's SONG. 
I, 

Came ye by Ora's verdant steep. 
That smiles the restless ocean over ? 

Heard ye a suffering maiden weep ? 
Heard ye her name a faithful lover ? 

Saw ye an aged matron stand 

O'er yon green grave above the strand, 



32 THE queen's wake. 

Bent like the trunk of wither'd tree, 
Or yon old thorn that sips the sea I 
Fix'd her dim eye, her face as pale 

As the mists that o'er her flew : 
Her joy is fled like the flower of the vale, 

Her hope like the morning dew ! 
That matron was lately as proud of her stay 
As the mightiest monarch of sceptre or sway t 
Oh, list to the tale ! 'tis a tale of soft sorrow, 
Of Malcolm of Lorn and young Ann of Glen-Orr. 

II. 
The sun is sweet at early morn, 

Just blushing from the ocean's bosom ; 
The rose that decks the woodland thorn 

Is fairest in its opening blossom. 
Sweeter than opening rose in dew. 
Than vernal flowers of richest hue, 
Than fragrant birch or weeping willow. 
Than red sun resting on the billow — 
Sweeter than aught to mortals given 

The heart and soul to prove — 
Sweeter than aught beneath the heaven. 

The joys of early love ! 
Never did maiden, and manly youth, 
Love with such fervour, and love with such truth ; 
Or pleasures and virtues alternately borrow, 
As Malcolm of Lorn and fair Ann of Glen-Ora. 

III. 
The day is come, the dreaded day. 

Must part two loving hearts for ever ; 
The ship lies rocking in the bay, 

The boat comes rippling up the river ; 
Oh happy has the gloaming's eye 

In green Glen-Ora's bosom seen them ! 
But soon shall lands and nations lie. 

And angry oceans roll between them. 
Yes, they must part, for ever part ; 
Chili falls the truth on either heart 5 



THE queen's wake. 33 

For honour, titles, wealth, and state, 
In distant lands her sire await. 
The maid must with her sire away, 

She cannot stay behind ; 
Straight to the south the pennons play, 

And steady is the wind. 
Shall Malcolm relinquish the home of his youth. 
And sail with his love to the lands of the south ? 
Ah, no ! for his father is gone to the tomb : 
One parent survives in her desolate home ! 
No child but her Malcolm to cheer her lone way : 
Break not her fond heart, gentle Malcolm — oh, stay ! 

IV. 

The boat impatient leans ashore. 

Her prow sleeps on a sandy pillow ; 
The rower leans upon his oar, 

Already bent to brush the billow. 
Oh ! Malcolm, view yon melting eyes. 

With tears yon stainless roses steeping ! 
Oh ! Malcolm, list thy mother's sighs ; 

She's leaning o'er her staff and weeping ! 
Thy Anna's heart is bound to thine, 
And must that gentle heart repine ? 
Quick from the shore the boat must fly ; 
Her soul is speaking through her eye : 
Think of thy joys in Ora's shade ; 

From Anna canst thou sever ? 
Think of the vows thou often hast made. 

To love the dear maiden for ever. 
And canst thou forego such beauty and youth. 
Such maiden honour and spotless truth ? 
Forbid it ! — He yields ; to the boat he draws nigh. 
Haste, Malcolm, aboard, and revert not thine eye. 

V. 

That trembling voice, in murmurs weak. 
Comes not to blast the hopes before thee ; 

For pity, Malcolm, turn, and take 
A last farewell of her that bore tliee. 
c 



34 THE queen's wake. 

She says no word to mar thy bliss ; 
A last embrace, a parting kiss, 
Her love deserves ; — then be thou gone, 
A mother's joys are thine alone. 
.Friendship may fade, and fortune prove 

Deceitful to thy heart ; 
But never can a mother's love 

From her own offspring part. 
That tender form, now bent and grey, 
Shall quickly sink to her native clay; 
Then who shall watch her parting breath, 
And shed a tear o'er her couch of death ? 
Who follow the dust to its long long home, 
And lay that head in an honour'd tomb I 

VI. 

Oft hast thou to her bosom prest, 

For many a day about been borne ; 
Oft Imsh'd and cradled on her breast — 

And canst thou leave that breast forlorn 1 
O'er all thy ails her heart has bled. 
Oft has she watch'd beside thy bed ; 
Oft pray'd for thee in dell at even, 
Beneath the pitying stars of heaven. 
Ah ! Malcolm, ne'er was parent yet 

So tender, so benign ! 
Never was maid so loved, so sweet, 

Nor soul so rent as thine ! 
He look'd to the boat — slow she heaved from the shore, 
He saw his loved Anna all speechless implore ; 
But, grasp'd by a cold and a trembhng hand, 
He clung to his parent, and sunk on the strand. 

VII. 

The boat across the tide flew fast. 

And left a silver curve behind ; 
Loud sung the sailor from the mast. 

Spreading his sails before the wind. 
The stately ship, adown the bay, 

A corslet framed of heaving snow, 
And flurr'd on high the slender spray. 

Till rainbows gleam'd around her prow. 



THE QUEEN'S WAKE. ii 

How strain' d was Malcolm's watery eye. 
Yon fleeting vision to descry ! 
But, ah ! her lessening form so fair, 
Soon vanished in the liquid air. 
Away to Ora's headland steep 

The youth retired the while, 
And saw th' unpitying vessel sweep 

Around yon Highland isle. 
His heart and his mind with that vessel had gone ; 
His sorrow was deep, and despairing his moan, 
When, lifting his eyes from the green heaving deep, 
He pray'd the Almighty his Anna to keep. 

viir. 
High o'er the crested cliffs of Lorn 

The curlew conn'd her wild bravura ; 
The sun, in pall of purple borne. 

Was hastening down the steeps of Jura. 
The glowing ocean heaved her breast, 

Her wandering lover's glances under ; 
And show'd his radiant form, imprest 

Deep in a wavy world of wonder. 
Not all the ocean's dyes at even, 
Though varied as the bow of heaven ; 
The countless isles, so dusky blue, 
Nor medley of the grey curlew. 
Could light on Malcolm's spirit shed ; 

Their glory all was gone ! 
For his joy was fled, his hope was dead^ 

And his heart forsaken and lone. 
The sea-bird sought her roofless nest, 
To warm her brood with her downy breast ; 
And near her home, on the margin dun, 
A mother weeps o'er her duteous son. 

IX. 

One little boat alone is seen 

On all the lovely dappled main. 
That softly sinks the waves between, 

Then vaults their heaving breasts again ; 



36 THE queen's wake. 

With snowy sail and rowers' sweep, 

Across the tide she seems to fly. 
Why bears she on yon headland steep, 

Where neither house ror home is nigh I 
Is that a vision from the deep 
That springs ashore and scales the steep, 
Nor ever stays its ardent haste 
Till sunk upon young Malcolm's breast I 
Oh ! spare that breast so lowly laid, 

So fraught with deepest sorrow ! 
It is his own, his darling maid, 

Young Anna of Glen-Ora ! 
" My Malcolm ! part we ne'er again ! 
My father saw thy bosom's pain ; 
Pitied my grief from thee to sever ; 
Now I, and Glen-Ora, am thine for ever i*' 

X. 
That blaze of joy, through clouds of woe. 

Too fierce upon his heart did fall. 
But, ah ! the shaft had left the bow. 

Which power of man could not recall ! 
No word of love could Malcolm speak ; 

No raptured kiss his lips impart ; 
No tear bedew'd his shivering cheek, 

To ease the grasp that held his heart. 
Ilis arms essay'd one kind embrace — 

Will they enclose her 1 — never ! never ! 
A smile set softly on his face. 

But, ah ! the eye was set for ever ! 
'Twas more than* broken heart could brook ! 
How throbs that breast ! — How glazed that look ! 
One shiver more ! — All ! all is o'er ! 
As melts the wave on level shore ; 
As fades the dye of falling even. 
Far on the silver verge of heaven ; 
As on thy ear the minstrel's lay — 
So died the comely youth away. 



TfiE queen's wake. " 37 

The strain died soft in note of woe, 
Nor breath nor whisper 'gan to flow 
From courtly circle ; all as still 
As midnight on the lonely hill. 
So well that foreign minstrel's strain 
Had mimick'd passion, woe, and pain ; 
Seem'd even the chilly hand of death 
Stealing away his mellow breath. 
So sigh'd — so stopp'd — so died his lay — 
His spirit, too, seem'd fled for aye. 

'Tis true, the gay attentive throng 
Admired, but loved not much, his song : 
Admired his wondrous voice and skill. 
His harp that thrill'd or wept at will. 
But that aff"ected gaudy rhyme, 
The querulous keys and changing chime, 
Scarce could the Highland chieftain brook : 
Disdain seem'd kindling in his look, 
That song so vapid, artful, terse. 
Should e'er compete with Scottish verse. 

But she, the fairest of the fair, 
Who sat enthroned in gilded chair, 
Well skill'd in foreign minstrelsy 
And artful airs of Italy, 
Listen'd his song with raptures wild. 
And on the happy minstrel smiled. 
Soon did the wily stranger's eye 
The notice most he wish'd espy, 
Then pour'd his numbers bold and free. 
Fired by the grace of majesty ; 
And when his last notes died away. 
When sunk in well-feign'd death he lay, 
When round the crowd began to ring, 
Thinking his spirit on the wing — 
First of the dames she came along, 
Wept, sigh'd, and marvell'd 'mid the throng 
And when they raised him, it was said 
The beauteous sovereign deign'd her aid ; 



3S THE QUEEN'S WAKE. 

And in her hands, so soft and warm, 
Upheld the minstrel's hand and ann. 
Then oped his eye, with rapture fired ; 
He smiled, and bowing oft, retired ; 
Pleased he so soon had realised, 
What more than gold or fame he prized. 

Next in the list was Gardyn's name :• 
No sooner calPd than forth he came. 
Stately he strode, nor bow made he, 
Nor even a look of courtesy. 
The simpering cringe and fawning look 
Of him who late the lists forsook, 
Roused his proud heart and fired his eye, 
That glow'd with native dignity. 

Full sixty years the bard had seen, 
Yet still his manly form and mien, 
His garb of ancient Caledon, 
Where lines of silk and scarlet shone, 
And golden garters 'neath his knee, 
Announced no man of mean degree. 

Upon his harp of wondrous frame 
Was carved his lineage and his name. 
There stood the cross that name above. 
Fair emblem of Almighty Love ; 
Beneath rose an embossment proud — 
A rose beneath a thistle bow'd. 

Lightly upon the form he sprung, 
And his bold harp impetuous rung. 
Not one by one the chords he tried, 
But brush'd them o'er from side to side, 
With either hand, so rapid, loud, 
Shook were the walls of Holyrood. 
Then in a mellow tone, and strong, 
He pour'd this wild and dreadful song. 



THE queek's wake. 3D 



YOUNG KENNEDY. 

THE SECOND BARd's SONG. 

When the gusts of October had rifled the thorn, 
Had dappled the woodland and umber'd the plain, 

In den of the mountain was Kennedy born ; 

There hush'd by the tempest, baptised with the rain. 

His cradle a mat that swung light on the oak ; 

His couch the sere mountain-fern spread on the rock ; 

The white knobs of ice from the chili'd nipple hung, 

And loud winter torrents his lullaby sung. 

Unheeded he shiver'd, unheeded he cried ; 

Soon died on the breeze of the forest his moan ; 
To his wailings the weary wood echo replied ; 

His watcher the wondering redbreast alone. 
Oft gazed his young eye on the whirl of the storm, 
And all the wild shades that the desert deform ; 
From cleft in the correi which thunders had riven, 
It oped on the pale flitting billows of heaven. 

The nursling of misery, young Kennedy learn'd 
His hunger, his thirst, and his passions to feed ; 

With pity for others his heart never yearn' d — 

Their pain was his pleasure, their sorrow his meed. 

His eye was the eagle's, the twilight his hue ; 

His stature like pine of the hill where he gi^evv ; 

His soul was the neal-fire inhaled from his den. 

And never knew fear save for ghost of the glen. 

His father a chief, for barbarity known. 

Proscribed, and by gallant Macdougal expell'd ; 
Where rolls the dark Teith through the valley of Doune, 

The conqueror's menial, he toil'd in the field. 
His master he loved not, obey'd with a scowl, 
Scarce smother'd his hate and his rancour of soul ; 
When challenged, his eye and his colour would change, 
His proud bosom nursing and planning revenge. 



40 THE queen's wake. 

Matilda, all ! woe that the wild rose's dye, 

Shed over thy maiden cheek, caused thee to rue ! 
Oh ! why was the sphere of thy love-rolling eye 

Inlaid with the diamond and dipp'd in the dew ? 
Thy father's sole daughter, his hope and his care 'y 
The child of his age and the child of his prayer ; 
And thine was the heart that was gentle and kind, 
And light as the feather that sports in the wind. 

To her home, from the Lowlands, Matilda return'd ; 

All fair was her form, and untainted her mind : 
Young Kennedy saw her, his appetite burn'd 

As fierce as the moor-flame impell'd by the wind. 
Was it love ? No ; the ray his dark soul never knew, 
That spark which eternity burns to renew ; 
'Twas the flash of desire, kindled fierce by revenge, 
Which savages feel the brown desert that range. 

Sweet woman ! too well is thy tenderness known ; 

Too often deep sorrow succeeds thy love smile ; 
Too oft, in a moment, thy peace overthrown — 

Fair butt of delusion, of passion, and guile ! 
What heart will. not bleed for Matilda so gay, 
To art and to long perseverance a prey ? 
Why sings yon scared blackbird in sorrowful mood ? 
Why blushes the daisy deep in the green wood ? 

Sweet woman ! with virtue thou'rt lofty, thou'rt free ; 

Yield that, thou^rt a slave and the mark of disdain : 
No blossom of spring is beleaguered like thee, , 

Though brush'd by the lightning, the wind, and the 
rain. 
Matilda is fallen ! With tears in her eye. 
She seeks her destroyer ; but only can sigh. 
Matilda is fallen, and sorrow her doom — 
The flower of the valley is nipt in the bloom ! 

Ah ! Kennedy, vengeance hangs over thine head ! 

Escape to thy native Glengarry forlorn. 
Why art thou at midnight away from thy bed ? 

Why quakes thy big heart at the break of the morn ? 



THE queen's wake. 41 

Why chatters yon magpie on gable so loud ? 
Why flits yon light vision in gossamer shroud ? 
How came yon white doves from the window to fly, 
And hover on weariless wmg to the sky ? 

Yon pie is the prophet of terror and death ; 

O'er Abel's green arbour that omen was given. 
Yon pale boding phantom a messenger wraith ; 

Yon doves, two fair angels commission'd of Heaven. 
The sun is in state, and the reapers in motion ; 
Why were they not call'd to their morning devotion ? 
Why slumbers Macdougal so long in his bed ? 
Ah ! pale on his couch the old chieftain lies dead ! 

Though grateful the hope to the death-bed that flies. 
That lovers and friends o'er our ashes will weep ; 

The soul, when released from her lingering ties. 
In secret may see if their sorrows are deep. 

Who wept for the worthy Macdougal ? Not one ! 

His darling Matilda, who, two months agone, 

Would have mourn'd for her father in sorrow extreme. 

Indulged in a painful delectable dream. 

But why do the matrons, while dressing the dead, 
Sit silent, and look as if something they knew ? 

Why gaze on the features ? Why move they the head. 
And point at the bosom so dappled and blue ? 

Say, was there foul play ? — Then, why sleeps the red 
thunder ? 

Ah ! hold, for suspicion stands silent with wonder. 

The body's entomb'd, and the green turf laid over — 

Matilda is wed to her dark Highland lover. 

Yes, the new moon that stoop'd over green Aberfoyle, 

And shed her light dews on a father's new grave. 
Beheld in her wane the gay wedding turmoil. 

And lighted the bj;ide to her chamber at eve : 
Blue, blue was the heaven ; and o'er the wide scene 
A vapoury silver veil floated serene, 
A fairy perspective, that bore from the eye 
Wood, mountain, and meadow, in distance to lie. 



42 THE queen's wake. 

Tlie scene was so still, it was all like a vision ; 

The lamp of the moon seem'd as fading for ever : 
'Twas awfully soft, without shade or elision ; 

And nothing was heard but the rush of the river. 
But why wont the bride-maidens walk on the lea, 
Nor lovers steal out to the sycamore tree ? 
Why turn to the hall with those looks of confusion ? 
There's nothing abroad ! — tis a dream ! — a delusion ! 

But why do the horses snort over their food, 
And cling to the manger in seeming dismay? 

What scares the old owlet afar to the wood 1 

Why screams the blue heron, as hastening away ? 

Say, why is the dog hid so deep in his cover ? 

Each window barr'd up, and the curtain drawn over ; 

Each white maiden bosom still heaving so high, 

And fix'd on another each fear-speaking eye 1 

'Tis all an illusion — the lamp let us trim ! 

Come, rouse thee, old minstrel, to strains of renown ; 
The old cup is empty, fill round to the brim, 

And drink the young pair to their chamber just gone. 
Ha ! why is the cup from the lip ta'en away ? 
Why fix'd every form like a statue of clay 1 
Say, whence is that noise and that horrible clamour ? 
Oh, heavens ! it comes from the marriage bedchamber. 

Oh ! haste thee Strath- Allan, Glen-Ogle, away, 
These outcries betoken wild horror and woe ; 
The dull ear of midnight is stunn'd with dismay ; 
Glen-Ogle ! Strath- Allan ! fly swift as the roe. 
Mid darkness and death, on eternity's brim. 
You stood with Macdonald and Archbald the grim ; 
Then why do you hesitate I why do you stand 
With claymore unsheath'd and red taper in hand ? 

The tumult is o'er ; not a murmur nor groan ; 

What footsteps so madly pace through the saloon ? 
'Tis Kennedy, naked and ghastly, alone, 

Who hies hina away by the light of the moon. 



THE QUEEJ^'S WAKE. 43 

AH prostrate and bleeding, Matilda they found, 
The threshold her pillow, her couch the cold ground ; 
Her features distorted, her colour the clay, 
Her feelings, her voice, and her reason away. 

ICre morn they return'd, hut how well had they never ! 

They brought with them horror too deep to sustain ; 
Ileturn'd but to chasten, and vanish for ever. 

To harrow the bosom and fever the brain. 
List, list to her tale, youth, levity, beauty — 
Oh ! sweet is the path of devotion and duty ! 
When pleasure smiles sweetest, dread danger and death, 
And think of Matilda, the flower of the Teith. 

Cfje 23vitre*s €ale. 

" I had just laid me down, but no word could I pray ; 

I had pillow'd my head, and drawn up the bed-cover ; 
I thought of the bed where my loved father lay. 

So damp and so cold, with the grass growing over. 
I turn'd to my husband ; but just as he spread 
His arms to enfold me, we saw round the bed 
A ghastly refulgence, as bright as day-noon. 
Though shut was the chamber from eye of the moon. 

Bestower of being ! in pity, oh ! hide 

That sight from the eye of my spirit for ever ; 

That page from the volume of memory divide. 
Or memory and being eternally sever ! 

?kly father approach'd ; our bed-curtains he drew ; 

Ah ! well the grey locks and pale features I knew. 

I saw his fix'd eye-balls indignantly glow ; 

Yet still in that look there was pity and woe. 

* Oh ! hide thee, my daughter,' he eagerly cried ; 

* Oh, haste from the bed of that parricide lover ! 
Embrace not thy husband, unfortunate bride. 

Thy red cup of misery already runs over. 
He strangled thy father ! thy guilt paved the way ; 
Thy heart yet is blameless ; oh, fly while you may ! 
Thy portion of life must calamity leaven ; 
But fly while there's hope of forgiveness from Heaven. 



44 THE queen's wake. 

And tliou, fell destroyer of virtue and life ! 

Oh ! well may'st thou quake at thy terrible doom ; 
For body or soul, with barbarity rife, 

On earth is no refuge, in heaven no room. 
Fly whither thou wilt, I will follow thee still, 
To dens of the forest or mists of the hill ; 
The task I'm assign'd, which I'll never forego, 
But chase thee from earth to thy dwelling below. 

The cave shall not cover, the cloud shall not hide thee ; 

At noon I will wither thy sight with my frown ; 
In gloom of the night I will lay me beside thee, 

And pierce with this weapon thy bosom of stone.' 
Fast fled the despoiler with bowlings most dire, 
Fast follow'd the spirit with rapier of fire — 
Away, and away, through the silent saloon. 
And away, and away, by the light of the moon. 

To follow I tried, but sunk down at the door : 
Alas ! from that trance that I ever awoke ! 

How wanders my mind ! I shall see him no more, 
Till God shall yon gates everlasting unlock. 

My poor brow is open, 'tis burning with pain, 

Oh, kiss it, sweet vision ! oh, kiss it again ! 

Now give me thine hand — I will fly ! I will fly ! 

Away, on the morn's dappled wing, to the sky.*' 

THE CONCLUSION. 

Oh ! shepherd of Braco, look well to thy flock, 

The piles of Glen-Ardochy murmur and jar ; 
The rook and the raven converse from the rock, 

The beasts of the forest are howling afar. 
Shrill-pipes the goss-hawk his dire tidings to tell, 
The grey mountain-falcon accords with his yell ; 
Aloft on bold pinion the eagle is borne. 
To ring the alarm at the gates of the morn. 
Ah ! shepherd, thy kids wander safe in the wood, 

Thy lambs feed in peace on Ben-Ardochy's brov ; 
Then why is the hoary cliff" sheeted with blood ? 

And what the poor carcass lies mangled below ? 



THE queen's wake. 45 

Oh, liie thee away to thy hut at the fountain, 
And dig a lone grave on the top of yon mountain ; 
But fly it for ever when falls the grey gloaming, 
For there a grim phantom still naked is roaming. 



Gardyn with stately step withdrew, 
While plaudits round the circle flew. 

Woe that the bard, whose thrilling song 
Has pour'd from age to age along, 
Should perish from the lists of fame, 
And lose his only boon — a name ! 
Yet many a song of wondrous power, 
Well known in cot and greenwood bower, 
Wherever swells the shepherd's reed 
On Yarrow's banks and braes of Tweed — 
Yes, many a song of olden time, 
Of rude array, and air sublime, 
Though long on time's dark whirlpool toss'd. 
The song is saved, the bard is lost. 

Yet have I ween'd, when these I sung 
On Ettrick banks, while mind was young ; 
When on the eve their strains I threw, 
And youths and maidens round me drew ." 
Or chanted in the lonely glen. 
Far from the haunts and eyes of men ; 
Yes, I have ween'd, with fondest sigh, 
The spirit of the bard was nigh ; 
Swung by the breeze on braken pile. 
Or hovering o'er me with a smile. 
Would Fancy still her dreams combine. 
That spirit, too, might breathe on mine ; 
Well pleased to see her songs the joy 
Of that poor lonely shepherd boy. 

'Tis said, and I believe the tale. 
That many rhymes which still prevail, 
Of genuine ardour, bold and free. 
Were aye admired, and aye will be, 
Had never been, or shortly stood, 
But for that wake at Holyrood. 



iO THE (Queen's wake. 

Certes tbat many a bard of name, 
Who there appear'd and strove for fame, 
No record names nor minstrel's tongue ; 
Not even are known the lays they sung. 

The fifth was from a western shore, 
Where rolls the dark and sullen Orr. 
Of peasant make and doubtful mien, 
Affecting airs of proud disdain ; 
Wide curl'd his raven locks and high, 
Dark was his visage, dark his eye, 
That glanced around on dames and men 
Like falcons on the cliffs of Ken. 
No one could read the character, 
If knave or genius writ was there ; 
But all supposed, from mien and frame^ 
From Erin he an exile came. 

With hollow voice and harp well strung, 
" Fair Margaret" was the song he sung, 
Well known to maid and matron grey 
Through all the glens of Galloway. 
When first the bard his song began, 
Of dreams and bodings hard to scan, 
Listen'd the court, with side-long bend^ 
In v/onder how the strain would end. 
But long ere that it grew so plain, 
They scarce from hooting could refrain ; 
And when the minstrel ceased to sing, 
A smother'd hiss ran round the ring. 
Red look'd our bard around the form. 
With eye of fire and face of storm ; 
Sprung to his seat with awkward leap, 
And mutter'd curses dark and deep. 

The sixth, too, from that country he, 
Where heath-cocks bay o'er western Deo, 
Where summer spreads her purple screen 
O'er moors where greensward ne'er was seen, 
Nor shade o'er all the prospect stern 
Save crusted rock or warrior's cairn. 



THE queen's wake. 47 

Gentle his form, his manners meet, 
His harp was soft, his voice was sweet ; 
He sung Lochryan's hapless maid, 
In bloom of youth by love betray'd : 
Turn'd from her lover's bower at last, 
To brave the chilly midnight blast ; 
And, bitterer far, the pangs to prove, 
Of ruin'd fame and slighted love ; 
A tender babe her arms within, 
Sobbing and " shivering at the chin." 
No lady's cheek in court was dry, 
So softly pour'd the melody. 

The eighth was from the Leven coast : 
The rest who sung that night are lost. 

Mounted the bard of Fife on high. 
Bushy his beard, and wild his eye ; 
His haggard cheek was pale as clay, 
And his thin locks were long and grey. 
Some wizard of the wild he seem'd. 
Who through the scenes of life had dream'J 
Of spells that vital life benumb. 
Of formless spirits wandering dumb, 
Where aspens in the moonbeam quake. 
By mouldering pile or mountain lake. 

He deem'd that fays and spectres wan 
Held converse with the thoughts of man ; 
In dreams their future fates foretold. 
And spread the death-flame on the wold ; 
Or flagg'd at eve each restless wing, 
In dells their vesper hymns to sing. 

Such was our bard, such were his lays ; 
And long, by green Benarty's base. 
His wild wood notes, from ivy cave. 
Had waked the dawning from the wave. 
At evening fall, in lonesome dale, 
He kept strange converse with the gale ; 
Held worldly pomp in high derision. 
And wander 'd in a world of vision. 



48 THE queen's wake. 

Of mountaln-asli his harp was framed, 
The brazen chords all trembling flamed, 
As in a rugged northern tongue, 
This mad unearthly song he sung. 



THE WITCH OF FIFE. 

THE EIGHTH BARd's SONG. 

" Quhare half ye been, ye ill womyn, 
These three lang nightis fra hame ? 

Qnbat garris the sweit drap fra yer brow. 
Like clotis of the saut sea faem ? 

It fearis me muckil ye half seen 

Quhat good man never knew ; 
It fearis me muckil ye haif been 

Quhare the grey cock never crew. 

But tlie spell may crack, and the brydel breck, 

Then sherpe yer werde will be ; 
i^e had better sleipe in yer bed at tiame, 

Wi' yer deire littil bairnis and me." 

" Sit dune, sit dune, my leile auld man. 

Sit dune, and listin to me ; 
I'll gar the hayre stand on yer crown. 

And the cauld sweit blind yer e'e. 

But tell nae wordis, my gude auld man. 

Tell never word again ; 
Or deire shall be yer courtesy e. 

And driche and sair yer pain. 

The first leet-nicht, quhan the new moon set, 

Qulian all was douffe and mirk, 
We saddled ouir naigis wi' the moon-fern leif, 

And rode fra Kilmerrin kirk. 

Some horses war of the brume-cow framit, 
And some of the greene bay tree ; 

But mine was made of ane humloke schaw, 
And a stout stallion was he. 



THE queen's wake. 49 

We raide tLe tod doune on the bill, 

The marten on the law ; 
And we huntyd the hoolet out of brethe, 

And forcit him doune to fa'." 

" Quhat gude was that, ye ill womyn ? 

Quhat gude was that to thee ? 
Ye wald better haif been in yer bed at hame, 

Wi yer deire littil bairnis and me." 

" And aye we raide, and se merrily we raide. 

Thro' the merkist gloffis of the night ; 
And we swam the floode, and we darnit the woode, 

Till we cam to the Lommond height. 

And quhan we cam to the Lommond height, 

Se lythlye we lychtid doune ; 
And we drank, fra the hornis that never grew, 

The beer that was never brewin. 

Than up there rase ane wee wee man, 

Fra nethe the moss-grey stane ; 
His fece was wan like the collifloure, 

For he nouthir had bluid nor bane. 

He set ane reid-pipe till his muthe, 

And he playit se bonniiye, 
Till the grey curlew and the black-cock flew 

To listen his melodye. 

It rang se sweet through the greene Lommond, 

That the nycht-winde lowner blew : 
And it soupit alang the Loch Leven, 

And wakinit the ^Yhite sea-mew. 

It rang se sweet through the greene Lommond, 

Se sweitly butt and se shill. 
That the wezilis laup out of their mouldy holis, 

And dancit on the midnycht hill. 

The corby craw cam gledgin near, 

The ern gede veeryng by ; 
And the troutis laup out of the Leven Loucli* 

Charmit with the melodye. 



50 THE queen's wake. 

And aye we dancit on tlie greene Lommond, 

Till the dawn on the ocean grew : 
Ne wonder I was a weary wycht 

Quhan I cam hame to you." 

" Q,uhat gude, quhat gude, my weird weird wyfe, 

Quhat gude was that to thee ? 
Ye wald better haif been in yer bed at hame, 

Wi yer deire littil bairnis and me." 

" The second nycht, quhan the new moon set, 

O'er the roaryng sea we flew ; 
The cockle-shell our trusty bark, 

Our sailis of the grein sea-rue. 

And the bauld windis blew, and the fire flauchtis flew, 

And the sea ran to the skye ; 
And the thunner it growlit, and the sea-dogs hovi-lit, 

As we gaed scouryng by. 

And aye we mountit the sea-greene hillis, 

Quhill we brushit thro' the cludis of the hevin ; 

Than sousit dounright, like the stern-shot light, 
Era the liftis blue casement driven. 

But our taickil stood, and our bark was good, 

And se pang was our pearily prowe ; 
Q,uhan we culdna speil the brow of the wavis, 

We needilit them thro' belowe. 

As fast as the hail, as fast as the gale. 

As fast as the midnycht leme, 
We borit the breiste of the burstyng swale, 

Or fluffit i' the flotyng faem. 

And quhan to the Norraway shore we wan. 

We muntyd our steedis of the wynd. 
And we splashit the floode, and we darnit the woode, 

And we left the shoir behynde. 

Fleet is the roe on the green Lommond, 

And swift is the couryng grew ; 
The rein-deir dun can eithly run, 

Quhan the houndis and the hornis pursue. 



THE queen's wake. 51 

But nowther tlie roe, nor the rein-deir dun, 

The hinde, nor the couryng grew, 
Culde fly ower muntaine, muir, and dale, 

As Guir braw steedis they flew. 

The dales war deep, and the DofFrinis steep, 

And we raise to the sky is ee-bree ; 
Q,uhite, quhite was ouir rode, that was never trcde, 

Ower the snawis of eternity ! 

And quhan we came to the Lapland lone, 

The fairies war all in array. 
For all the genii of the north 

War keepyng their holiday. 

The warlock men and the weird wemyn, 
And the fays of the wood and the steep. 

And the phantom hunteris all war there, 
And the mermaidis of the deep. 

And they washit us all with the witch- water, 

Distiliit fra the moorland dew, 
Quhill our beauty blumit like the Lapland rose. 

That wylde in the foreste grew." 

" Ye lee, ye lee, ye ill womyn, 

Se loud as I heir ye lee ! 
For the warst-faurd wyfe on the shoris of Fyfe 

Is cumlye comparit wi' thee." 

" Then the mermaidis sang and the woodlandis rs^n', 

Se sweetly swellit the quire ; 
On every chff" a herpe they hang, 

On every tree a lyre. 

And aye they sang and the woodlandis rang. 
And we drank and we drank se deep ; 

Then soft in the armis of the warlock men. 
We laid us dune to sleep." 

"Away, away, ye ill womyn. 

An ill deide met ye dee ! 
Quhan ye hae pruvit se false to yer God, 

Ye can never pruve trew to me," 



52 THE queen's wake. 

" And there we lernit fra the fairy f oke, 

And fra our master true. 
The wordis that can beire us thro' the air. 

And lokkis and barris undo. 

Last nycht we met at Maisry's cot, 

Richt well the wordis we knew ; 
And we set a foot on the black cruik-shell, 

And out at the lum we flew. 

And we flew ower hill, and we flew ower dale, 

And we flew ower firth and sea, 
Until we cam to merry Carlisle, 

Quhar we lightit on the lea. 

We gaed to the vault beyound the towii', 

Quhar we enterit free as ayr ; 
And we drank, and we drank of the bishopis wine 

Quhill we culde drynk ne mair." 

" Gin that be trew, my gude auld wyfe, 

Q,uhilk thou hast tauld to me, 
Betide my death, betide my lyfe, 

I'll beire thee companye. 

Neist time ye gang to merry Carlisle 

To drynk of the bluid-reid wine, 
Beshrew my heart, I'll fly with thee, 

If the deil shulde fly behynde." 

" Ah ! little do ye ken, my silly auld man, 

The dangeris we maun dree ; 
Last nycht we drank of the bishopis wyne 

Q,uhill near near taen war we. 

Afore we wan to the sandy ford, 

The gorcockis niehering flew ; 
The lofty crest of Ettrick Pen 

Was wavit about with blew. 
And, flichtering thro' the air, we fand 

The chill chill mornyng dew. 

As we flew ower the hillis of Braid, 
The sun rase fair and clear ; 



THE QUEE2q's WAKE. 53 

There giirly James and his baronis braw 
War out to hunt the deere. 

Their bowis they drew, their arrowis flew. 

And peircit the ayr with speed, 
'^uhill purpii fell the mornyng dew 

With witch bluid rank and reid. 

Littil do ye ken, my silly auld man, 

The dangeris we maun dree ; 
Na wonder I am a weary wycht 

Quhan I come hame to thee." 

•^ But tell me the word, my gude auld wyfe, 

Come tell it me speedilye ; 
For I lang to drink of the gude reid wyne. 

And to wyng the ayr with thee. 

Yer hellish horse I wilna ryde, 

Nor sail the seas in the wynd ; 
But I can flee as well as thee. 

And I'll drink quhill ye be blynd." 

" Oh fy ! oh fy ! my leil auld man, 

That word I daurna tell ; 
It wald turn this warld all upside down 

And mak it warse than hell. 

For all the lasses in the land 

Wald munt the wynd and fly ; 
And the men wald doff" their doublets syde, 

And after them wald ply." 

But the auld gudeman was ane cunnyng auld man, 

And ane cunnyng auld man was he ; 
And he watchit, and he watchit for mony a nycht, 

The witches' flychte to see. 

Ane nycht he darnit in Maisry's cot ; 

The fearless haggs cam in ; 
And he heard the word of awsome weird. 

And he saw their deedis of synn. 
Then ane by ane they said that word, 

As fast to the fire they drew ; 



04 THE QUEEN S WAKE, 

Then set a foot on the black cruik-shell, 
And out at the lum they flew. 

The auld gudeman cam fra his hole 

With feire and muckil dreide. 
But yet he culdna think to rue, 

For the wyne cam in his head. 

He set his foot in the black cruik-shell, 

With ane fixit and ane wawlyng e'e ; 
And he said the word that I daurna say, 

And out at the lum flew he. 

The witches skalit the moon-beam pale ; 

Deep groanit the trembling wynde ; 
But they never wist till our auld gudeman 

Was hoveryng them behynde. 

They flew to the vaultis of merry Carlisle, 

Quhair they enterit free as ayr ; 
And they drank and they drank of the bishopis wyne, 

Quhill they culde drynk ne mair. 

The auld gudeman he grew se crouse, 

He dancit on the mouldy ground. 
And he sang the bonniest sangis of Fife, 

And he tuzzlit the kerlyngs round. 

And aye he percit the tither butt. 

And he suckit, and he suckit se lang, 
Quhill his een they closit, and his voice grew low, 

And his tongue wold hardly gang. 

The kerlyngs drank of the bishopis wyne 
Quhill they scentit the mornyng wynde ; 

Then clove again the yielding ayr, 
And left the auld man behynde. 

And aye he slepit on the damp damp floor. 

He slepit and he snorit amain ; 
He never dremit he w^as far fra hame, 

Or that the auld wyvis war gane. 

And aye he slepit on the damp damp floor, 
Quhill past the mid-day highte, 



THE queen's wake. 55 

Quhan wakinit by five rougli Englislimeii, 
That trailit him to the lychte. 

" Now quha are ye, ye silly auld man, 

That sleepis se sound and se weil ? 
Or how gat ye into the bishopis vault 

Thro' lokkis and barris of steel I " 

The auld gudeman he tryit to speak, 

But ane word he culdna fynde ; 
He tryit to think, but his hea^i whirlit round, 

And ane thing he culdna mynde : 
" I cam fra Fyfe," the auld man cryit, 

" And I came on the midnycht wynde." 

They nickit the auld man, and they prickit the auld 
man, 

And they yerkit his limbs with twine, 
Quhill the reid bluid ran in his hose and shoon, 

But some cryit it was wyne. 

They lickit the auld man, and they prickit the auld 
man, 

And they tyit him till ane stone ; 
And they set ane bele-fire him about. 

And they burnit him skin and bone. 

Now wae be to the puir auld man 

That ever he saw the day ! 
And wae be to all the ill wemyne. 

That lead puir men astray ! 

Let never ane auld man after this 

To lawless greide inclyne ; 
Let never ane auld man after this 

Rin post to the diel for wyne. 



When ceased the minstrel's crazy song. 
His heedful glance embraced the throng, 
And found the smile of free delight 
Dimpling the cheeks of ladies bright. 
Ah ! never yet was bard unmoved, 
When beauty smiled or birth approved ! 



5Q THE queen's wake. 

For tliough Ills song he holds at nought — 
" An idle strain ! a passing thought !" — • 
Child of the soul ! 'tis held more dear 
Than aught by mortals valued here. 

When Leven's bard the court had view'd, 
His eye, his vigour, was renew'd. 
No, not the evening's closing eye, 
Veil'd in the rainbow's deepest dye, 
By summer breezes luli'd to rest, 
Cradled on Leven's silver breast. 
Or slumbering on the distant sea. 
Imparted sweeter ecstacy. 
Nor even the angel of the night. 
Kindling his holy sphere of light, 
Afar upon the heaving deep. 
To light a world of peaceful sleep, 
Though in her beam night-spirits glanced, 
And lovely fays in circles danced. 
Or rank by rank rode lightly by, 
Was sweeter to our minstrel's eye. 

Unheard the bird of morning crew ; 
Unheard the breeze of ocean blew ; 
The night unween'd had pass'd away, 
And dawning usher'd in the day. 
The queen's young maids, of cherub hue, 
Aside the silken curtains drew. 
And, lo ! the night, in still profound, 
In fleece of heaven had clothed the ground ; 
And still her furs, so light and fair 
Floated along the morning air. 
Low stoop'd the pine amid the wood, 
And the tall cliffs of Salsbury stood 
Like marble columns bent and riven, 
Propping a pale and frowning heaven. 

The queen bent from her gilded chair, 
And waved her hand with graceful air — 
" Break up the court, my lords ; away. 
And use the day as best you may, 



THE queen's wake. 57 

In sleep, in love, or wassail clieer ; 
The day is dark, the evening near, 
^ Say, will you grace my halls the while, 
And in the dance the day beguile ? 
Break up the court, my lords ; away, 
And use the day as best you may. 
Give order that my minstrels true 
Have royal fare and honours due ; 
And warn'd by evening's bugle shrill, 
We meet to judge their minstrel skill." 

Whether that royal wake gave birth 
To days of sleep and nights of mirth, 
Which kings and courtiers still approve, 
Which sages blame, and ladies love. 
Imports not ; but our courtly throng 
(That chapel wake being kept so long) 
Slept out the lowering short-lived days, 
And heard by night their native lays, 
Till fell the eve of Christmas good, 
The dedication of the Rood. 

Ah me ! at routs and revels gay, 
Reproach of this unthrifty day, 
Though none amongst the dames or men 
Rank higher than a citizen. 
In chair or chariot all are borne, 
Closed from the piercing eye of morn ; 
But then, though dawning blasts were keen, 
Scotland's high dames you might have seen, 
Ere from the banquet hall they rose, 
Shift their laced shoes and silken hose ; 
Their broider'd kirtles round them throw, 
And wade their way through wreaths of snoT, 
Leaning on lord or lover's arm. 
Cheerful and reckless of all harm. 
Vanish'd those hardy times outright ; 
So is our ancient Scottish might ! 

Sweet be her home, admired her charms, 
Bliss to her couch in lover's arms^ 



f 8 THE QUEEN S WAKE. 

I bid in every minstrers name, 
I bid to every lovely dame, 
That ever gave one hour away 
To cheer the bard or list his lay ! 

To all who love the raptures high 
Of Scottish song and minstrelsy, 
Till next the night, in sable shroud, 
Shall wrap the halls of Holyrood, 
That rival minstrel's songs I borrow- 
I bid a hearty kind good-morrow. 



NIGHT THE SECOND. 

Scarce fled the dawning's dubious grey, 
So transient was that dismal day : 
The lurid vapours, dense and stern, 
Unpierced save by the crusted cairn, 
In tenfold shroud the heavens deform ; 
While far within the moving storm 
Travell'd the sun in lonely blue. 
And noontide wore a twilight hue. 

The sprites that through the welkin wing, 
That light and shade alternate bring. 
That wrap the eve in dusky veil. 
And weave the morning's purple rail ; 
From pendent clouds of deepest grain, 
Shed that dull twilight o'er the main. 
Each spire, each tower, and cliff sublime. 
Were hooded in the wreathy rime ; 
And all, ere fell the murk of even. 
Were lost within the folds of heaven. 
It seem'd as if the welkin's breast 
Had bow'd upon the world to rest ; 
As heaven and earth to close began, 
And seal the destiny of man. 

The supper bell at court had rung ; 
The mass was said, the vesper sung ; 
In true devotion's sweetest mood, 
Beauty had kneel'd before the rood ; 



59 



But all was done in secret guise, 

Close from the zealot's searching eyes. 

Then burst the bugle's lordly peal 
Along the earth's incumbent veil ; 
Swam on the cloud and lingering shower^ 
To festive hall and lady's bower ; 
And found its way, with rapid boom, 
To rocks far curtain'd in the gloom, 
And waked their viewless bugle's strain. 
That sung the soften'd notes again. 

Up sprung the maid from her love- dream ; 
The matron from her silken seam ; 
The abbot from his holy shrine ; 
The chiefs and warriors from their wine ; 
For aye the bugle seem'd to say, 
" The Wake's begun ! away, away !" 

Fast pour'd they in, all fair and boon, 
Till crowded was the grand saloon ; 
And scarce was left a little ring, 
In which the rival bards might sing. 

First in the list that night to play, 
Was Farquhar, from the hills of Spey : 
A gay and comely youth was he, 
And seem'd of noble pedigree. 
Well known to him Loch-Avin's shore, 
And all the dens of dark Glen-More ; 
Where oft, amid his roving clan, 
His shaft had pierced the ptarmigan j 
And oft the dun-deer's velvet side. 
That winged shaft had ruthless dyed — 
Had struck the heath-cock whirring high, 
And brought the eagle from the sky. 

Amid those scenes the youth was bred, 
Where Nature's eye is stern and dread ; 
'Mid forests dark, and caverns wild. 
And mountains above mountains piled, 
Whose hoary summits, tempest-riven, 
Uprear eternal snows to heaven. 



60 THE queen's wake. 

Aloof from battle's fierce alarms, 
Prone his young mind to music's charms. 
The cliffs and woods of dark Glen-More 
He taught to chant in mystic lore ; 
For well he ween'd, by tarn and hill, 
Kind viewless spirits wander'd still ; 
And fondly trow'd the groups to spy, 
Listening his cliff-born melody. 
On Lev en's bard with scorn he look'd, 
His homely song he scarcely brook'd ; 
But proudly mounting on the form, 
Thus sung The Spirit of the Storm. 



GLEN-AVIN. 
THE NINTH BARD's SONG. 

Beyond the grisly cliffs, which guard 
The infant rills of Highland Dee, 

Where hunter's horn was never heard, 
Nor bugle of the forest bee ; 

'Mid wastes that dern and dreary lie. 
One mountain rears his mighty form. 

Disturbs the moon in passing by. 

And smiles above the thunder storm. 

There Avin spreads her ample deep, 
To mirror cliffs that brush the wain ; 

Whose frigid eyes eternal weep, 
In summer suns and autumn rain. 

There matin hymn was never sung ; 

Nor vesper, save the plover's wail ; 
But mountain eagles breed their young, 

And aerial spirits ride the gale. 

An hoary sage once linger'd there, 
Intent to prove some mystic scene ; 

Though cavern deep and forest sere 

Had whoop'd November's boisterous reign. 



THE QUE£:s's WAKE. 61 

Thab noontide fell so stern and still, 
The breath of nature seem'd away ; 

The distant sigh of mountain rill 
Alone disturb'd that solemn day. 

Oft had that seer, at break of mom, 
Beheld the fahm glide o'er the fell ; 

And 'neath the new moon's silver horn, 
The fairies dancing in the dell. 

Had seen the spirits of the glen, 

In every form that Ossian knew ; 
And wailings heard for living men 

Were never more the light to view. 

But, ah ! that dull foreboding day, 
He saw what mortal could not bear ; 

A sight that scared the erne away. 
And drove the wild-deer from his lair. 

Firm in his magic ring he stood, 

When, lo ! aloft on grey Cairn-Gorm, 

A form appear'd that chill'd his blood— 
The giant spirit of the storm. 

His face was like the spectre wan, 
Slow gliding from the midnight aisle ; 

His stature, on the mighty plan 

Of smoke-tower o'er the burning pile. 

Red, red and grisly were his eyes ; 

His cap the moon-cloud's silver grey ; 
His staff the writhed snake, that lies 

Pale, bending o'er the Milky Way, 

He cried, " Away, begone, begone ! 

Half-naked, hoary, feeble form ! 
How darest thou hold my realms alone, 

And brave the angel of the storm ? " 

" And who art thou," the seer replied, 
" That bear'st destruction on thy brov*' 1 

Whose eye no mortal can abide ? 

Di^ead mountain spirit ! what art thou V* 



62 THE queen's wake. 

" Within this desert, dank and lone, 
Since roU'd the world a shoreless sea, 

I've held my elemental throne. 
The terror of thy race and thee. 

I wrap the sun of heaven in bloody 
Veiling his orient beams of light ; 

And hide the moon in sable shroud, 
Far in the alcove of the night. 

I ride the red bolt's rapid wing, 

High on the sweeping whirlwind sail, 

And list to hear my tempests sing 
Around Glen-Avin's ample vale. 

These everlasting hills are riven ; 

Their reverend heads are bald and grey ; 
The Greenland waves salute the heaven, 

And quench the burning stars with spray. 

Who was it rear'd those whelming waves ? 

Who scalp'd the brows of old Cairn- Gorm I 
And scoop'd these ever-yawning caves ?— 

'Twas I, the Spirit of the Storm. 

And hence shalt thou, for evermore, 
Be doom'd to ride the blast with me ; 

To shriek, amid the tempest's roar, 
By fountain, ford, and forest tree." 

The wizard cower'd him to the earth, 

And orisons of dread began : 
" Hence, spirit of infernal birth ! 

Thou enemy of God and man 1" 

He waved his sceptre north away. 
The arctic ring was rift asunder ; 

And through the heaven the startUng bray 
Burst louder than the loudest thunder. 

The feathery clouds, condensed and curl'd, 
In columns swept the quaking glen ; 

Destruction down the dale was hurl'd. 
O'er bleating flocks and wondering men, 



THE queen's wake. 63 

The Gframpians groan' d beneath the storm ; 

New mountains o'er the corries lean'd ; 
Ben-Nevis shook his shaggy form, 

And wonder'd what his sovereign mean'd. 

Even far on YarroAv's fairy dale. 

The shepherd paused in dumb dismay ; 

And passing shrieks adov/n the wale^ 
Lured many a pitying hind away. 

The Lowthers felt the tyrant's wrath ; 

Proud Hartfell quaked beneath his brand ; 
And Cheviot heard the cries of death, 

Guarding his loved Northumberland. 

But, oh ! as fell that fateful night. 
What horrors Avin's wilds deform. 

And choke the ghastly lingering light ! 
There whirl'd the vortex of the storm. 

Ere morn the wind grew deadly still, 

And dawning in the air updrew. 
From many a shelve and shining hill, 

Her folding robe of fairy blue. 

Then what a smooth and wondrous scene 
Hung o'er Loch-Avin's lonely breast. 

Not top of tallest pine was seen, 

On which the dazzled eye could rest. 

But mitred cliff, and crested fell, 

In lucid curls her brows adorn, 
Aloft the radiant crescents swell. 

All pure as robes by angels worn. 

Sound sleeps our seer, far from the day^ 
Beneath yon sleek and wreathed cone I 

His spirit steals, unmiss'd, away. 
And dreams across the desert lone. 

Sound sleeps our seer ! the tempests rave, 
And cold sheets o'er his bosom fling ; 

The moldwarp digs his mossy grave ; 
His requiem Avin's eagles sing. 



64 THE queen's wake. 

Wliy howls tlie fox above yon wreath, 
That mocks the blazing summer sun ? 

Why croaks the sable bird of death, 
As hovering o'er yon desert dun ? 

When circling years have pass'd away, 
And summer blooms in Avin Glen, 

Why stands yon peasant in dismay, 
Still gazing o'er the bloated den ? 

Green grows the grass ! the bones are white 
Not bones of mountain stag they seem ! 

There hooted once the owl by night. 
Above the dead-light's lambent beam I 

See yon lone cairn, so grey with age, 
Above the base of proud Cairn-Gorm : 

There lies the dust of Avin's sage. 
Who raised the Spirit of the Storm. 

Yet still at eve, or midnight drear, 
When wintry winds begin to sweep. 

When passing shrieks assail thine ear, 
Or murmurs by the mountain steep ; 

When from the dark and sedgy dells 
Came eldrich cries of wilder'd men, 

Or wind-harp at thy window swells- 
Beware the sprite of Avin Glen ! 



Young Farquhar ceased, and rising slow, 
Doff'd his plumed bonnet, wiped his brow, 
And fiush'd with conscious dignity. 
Cast o'er the crowd his falcon eye. 
And found them all in silence deep, 
As- listening for the tempest's sweep. 
So well his tale of Avin's seer 
Suited the rigour of the year ; 
So high his strain, so bold his lyre, 
So fraught with rays of Celtic fire, 
They almost ween'd each hum that pass'd 
The spirit of the northern blast. 



THE queen's wake. 65 

The next was named — the very sound 
Excited merriment around : 
But when the bard himself appear'd, 
The ladies smiled, the courtiers sneer'd ; 
For such a simple air and mien 
Before a court had never been. 
A clown he was, bred in the wild, 
And late from native moors exiled, 
In hopes his mellow mountain strain 
High favour from the great would gain. 
Poor wight ! he never ween'd how hard 
For poverty to earn regard ! 
Dejection o'er his visage ran. 
His coat was bare, his colour wan, 
His forest doublet darn'd and torn. 
His shepherd plaid all rent and worn ; 
Yet dear the symbols to his eye, 
Memorials of a time gone by. 

The bard on Ettrick's mountains green 
In nature's bosom nursed had been, 
And oft had mark'd, in forest lone. 
Her beauties on her mountain throne ; 
Had seen her deck the wild-wood tree, 
And star with snowy gems the lea ; 
In loveliest colours paint the plain, 
And sow the moor with purple grain. 
By golden mead and mountain sheer, 
Had view'd the Ettrick waving clear. 
Where shadowy flocks of purest snow 
Seem'd grazing in a world below. 

Instead of ocean's billowy pride. 
Where monsters play and navies ride. 
Oft had he view'd, as morning rose, 
The bosom of the lonely Lowes, 
Plough'd far by many a downy keel. 
Of wild-duck and of vagrant teal. 
Oft thrill'd his heart at close of even, 
To see the dappled vales of heaven, 



CG THE queen's wake. 

With many a mountain, moor, and tree, 

Asleep upon the Saint Mary. 

The pilot swan majestic wind, 

With all his cygnet fleet behind, 

So softly sail, and swiftly row, 

With sable oar and silken prow. 

Instead of war's unhallow'd form, 

His eye had seen the thunder-storm 

Descend within the mountain's brim, 

And shroud him in its chambers grim. 

Then from its bowels burst amain 

The sheeted flame and sounding rain, 

And by the bolts in thunder borne, 

The heaven's own breast and mountain torn. 

The wild-roe from the forest driven ; 

The oaks of ages peel'd and riven ; 

Impending oceans whirl and boil, 

Convulsed by nature's grand turmoil. 

Instead of arms or golden crest, 
His harp with mimic flowers was drest ; 
Around, in graceful streamers, fell 
The brier rose and the heather bell ; 
And there, his learning deep to prove, 
NaturcB Donum graved above. 
When o'er her mellow notes he ran, 
And his v/ild mountain chant began 5 
Then first was noted in his eye 
A gleam of native energy. 

OLD DAVID. 

THE TENTH BARD's SONG. 

Old David rose ere it was day, 
And climb'd old Wonfell's wizard brae ; 
Look'd round, with visage grim and sour, 
O'er Ettrick woods and Eskdale-moor. 
An outlaw from the south he came, 
And Ludlow was his father's name \ 



THE queen's wake. 67 

His native land had used Mm ill, 
And Scotland bore him no good will. 

As fix'd he stood, in sullen scorn, 
Regardless of the streaks of morn, 
Old David spied, on Wonfeli cone, 
A fairy band come riding on. 
A lovelier troop was never seen ; 
Their steeds were white, their doublets green, 
Their faces shone like opening morn. 
And bloom'd like roses on the thorn. 
At every flowing mane was hung 
A silver bell that lightly rung ; 
That sound, borne on the breeze away. 
Oft set the mountaineer to pray. 

Old David crept close in the heath, 
Scarce moved a limb, scarce drew a breath ; 
But as the tinkling sound came nigh. 
Old David's heart beat wondrous high. 
He thought of riding on the wind ; 
Of leaving hawk and hern behind ; 
Of sailing lightly o'er the sea. 
In mussel shell, to Germany ; 
Of revel raids by dale and down ; 
Of lighting torches at the moon ; 
Or through the sounding spheres to sing, 
Borne on the fiery meteor's wing ; 
Of dancing 'neath the moonlight sky ; 
Of sleeping in the dew-cup's eye. 
And then he thought — oh ! dread to tell I — 
Of tithes the fairies paid to hell ! 

David turn'd up a reverend eye, 
And fix'd it on the morning sky ; 
He knew a Mighty One lived there, 
That sometimes heard a warrior's prayer. 
No word, save one, could David say ; 
Old David had not learn'd to pray. 

Scarce will a Scotsman yet regard 
What David saw, and what he heard. 



68 THE queen's wake. 

He heard their horses snort and tread, 
And every word the riders said ; 
While green portmanteaus, long and lowj 
Lay bended o'er each saddle-bow, 
A lovely maiden rode between. 
Whom David judged the fairy queen ; 
But strange ! he heard her moans resound, 
And saw her feet with fetters bound. 

Fast spur they on through bush and brake ; 
To Ettrick woods their course they take. 
Old David follow'd still in view, 
Till near the Lochilaw they drew ; 
There in a deep and wondrous dell, 
Where wandering sunbeam never fell. 
Where noontide breezes never blew 
From flowers to drink the morning dew ; 
There, underneath the sylvan shade, 
The fairies' spacious bower was made. 
Its rampart was the tangling sloe, 
The bending brier, and mistletoe ; 
And o'er its roof the crooked oak 
Waved wildly from the frowning rock. 

This wondrous bower, this haunted dell, 
The forest shepherd shunn'd as hell ! 
When sound of fairies' silver horn 
Came on the evening breezes borne. 
Homeward he fled, nor made a stand. 
Thinking the spirits hard at hand. 
But when he heard the eldrich swell 
Of giggling laugh and bridle bell, 
Or saw the riders troop along. 
His orisons were loud and strong. 
His household fare he yielded free 
To this mysterious company. 
The fairest maid his cot within 
Besign'd with awe and little din ; 
True, he might weep, but nothing say. 
For none durst say the fairies nay. 



THE QtJEEK'S WAKE. 69 

Old David hasted home that night, 
A wondering and a wearied wight. 
Seven sons he had, alert and keen, 
Had all in border battles been ; 
Had wielded brand, and bent the bow, 
For those who sought their overthrow. 
Their hearts were true, their arms were strong, 
Their falchions keen, their arrows long ; 
The race of fairies they denied — 
No fairies kept the English side. 

Our yeomen on their armour threw. 
Their brands of steel and bows of yew ; 
Long arrows at their backs they sling, 
Fledged from the Snowdon eagle's wing, 
And boun' away, brisk as the wind, 
The sire before, the sons behind. 

That evening fell so sweetly still. 
So mild on lonely moor and hill. 
The little genii of the fell 
Forsook the purple heather bell. 
And all their dripping beds of dew, 
In wild-flower, thyme, and violet blue ; 
Aloft their viewless looms they heave, 
And dew-webs round the helmets weave. 
The waning moon her lustre threw 
Pale round her throne of soften'd blue ; 
Her circuit, round the southland sky, 
Was languid, low, and quickly by ; 
Leaning on cloud so faint and fair. 
And cradled on the golden air ; 
Modest and pale as maiden bride. 
She sunk upon the trembling tide. 

What late in daylight proved a jest. 
Was now the doubt of every breast. 
That fairies were, was not disputed ; 
But what they were, was greatly doubted. 
Each argument was guarded well. 
With "if," and « should," and « who can tell V 



70 THE queen's wake. 

" Sure He that made majestic man, 
And framed the world's stupendous plan ; 
Who placed on high the steady pole. 
And sow'd the stars that round it roll ; 
And made that sky, so large and blue — 
Could surely make a fairy too." 

Whe sooth to say, each valiant core 
Knew feelings never felt before. 
Oft had they darn'd the midnight brake, 
Fearless of aught save bog and lake ; 
But now the nod of sapling fir, 
The heath-cock's loud exulting whirr. 
The cry of hern from sedgy pool. 
Or airy bleeter's rolling howl, 
Came fraught with more dismaying dread 
Than warder's horn or warrior's tread. 

Just as the gloom of midnight fell, 
They reach'd the fairies' lonely dell. 
Oh, heavens ! that dell was dark as death ! 
Perhaps the pitfall yawn'd beneath ! 
Perhaps that lane that winded low, 
Led to a nether world of woe ! 
But stern necessity's control. 
Resistless sways the human soul. 

The bows are bent, the tinders smoke 
With fire by sword struck from the rock. 
Old David held the torch before ; 
His right hand heaved a dread claymore. 
Whose Rippon edge he mea,nt to try 
On the first fairy met his eye. 
Above his head his brand was raised ; 
Above his head the taper blazed ; 
A sterner or a ghastlier sight, 
Ne'er enter'd bower at dead of night. 
Below each lifted arm was seen 
The barbed point of arrow keen, 
Which waited but the twang of Jaow 
To fly like lightning on tlie foe. 



^riiE queen's wake. ^ 71 

Slow move they on, with steady eye, 
Resolved to conquer or to die. 

At length they spied a massive door, 
Deep in a nook, unseen before ; 
And by it slept, on wicker chair, 
A sprite of dreadful form and air. 
His grisly beard flow'd round his throat, 
Like shaggy hair of mountain-goat ; 
His open jaws and visage grim. 
His half-shut eye, so deadly dim. 
Made David's blood to 's bosom rush. 
And his grey hair his helmet brush. 
He squared, and made his falchion wheel 
Around his back from head to heel ; 
Then rising tiptoe, struck amain — 
Down fell the sleeper's head in twain , 
And springing blood, in veil of smoke, 
Whizz'd high against the bending oak. 

" By heaven !" said George, with jocund air, 
" Father, if all the fairies there 
Are of the same materials made. 
Let them beware the Rippon blade !" 
A ghastly smile was seen to play 
O'er David's visage, stern and grey ; 
He hoped, and fear'd ; but ne'er till then 
Knew whether he fought with sprites or men. 

The massive door they next unlock. 
That oped to hall beneath the rock. 
In which new wonders met the eye : 
The room was ample, rude, and high, 
The arches cavern'd, dark, and torn, 
On nature's rifted columns borne ; 
Of moulding rude the embrazure, 
And all the wild entablature ; 
And far o'er roof and architrave, 
The ivy's ringlets bend and wave. 
In each abrupt recess was seen 
A couch of heath and rushes green ; 



THE QUEEN'S WAKE. 

While every alcove's sombre hue 

Was gemm'd with drops of midnight dew. 

Why stand our heroes still as death, 
Nor muscle move, nor heave a breath ? 
See how the sire his torch has lower'd, 
And bends recumbent o'er his sword ! 
The arcubalister has thrown 
His threatening, thirsty arrows down ! 
Struck in one moment, all the band 
Entranced like moveless statues stand ! 
Enchantment sure arrests the spear. 
And stints the warrior's bold career ! 

List, list ! what mellow angel sound 
Distils from yonder gloom profound ? 
'Tis not the note of gathering shell, 
Of fairy horn, nor silver bell ! 
No, 'tis the lute's mellifluous swell, 
Mix'd with a maiden's voice so clear, 
The flitting bats flock round to hear ! 

So wildly o'er the vault it rung. 
That song, if in the greenwood sung, 
Would draw the fays of wood and plain 
To kiss the lips that pour'd the strain. 
The lofty pine would listening lean ; 
The wild birch wave her tresses green ; 
And larks that rose the dawn to greet, 
Drop lifeless at the singer's feet. 
The air was old, the measure slow, 
The words were plain, but words of woe. 

Soft died the strain ; the warriors stand. 
Nor rested lance, nor lifted brand ; 
But listening bend, in hopes again 
To hear that sweetly plaintive strain. 
'Tis gone ! and each uplifts his eye, 
As waked from dream of ecstacy. 

Why stoops young Owen's gilded crest ? 
Why heave those groans from Owen's breast ? 
While kinsmen's eyes in raptures speak. 
Why steals the tear o'er Owen's cheek ? 



THE queen's wake. 7S 

That melting song, that song of pain, 
Was sung to Owen's favourite strain ; 
The words were new, but that sweet lay 
Had Owen heard in happier day. 

Fast press they on ; in close-set row, 
Winded the lab'rinth far and low, 
Till in the cave's extremest bound, 
Array'd in sea-green silk, they found 
Five beauteous dames, all fair and young ; 
And she, who late so sweetly sung, 
Sat leaning o'er a silver lute. 
Pale with despair, with terror mute. 

When back her auburn locks she threw, 
And raised her eyes so lovely blue, 
'Twas like the woodland rose in dew ! 
That look was soft as morning flower. 
And mild as sunbeam through the shower. 
Old David gazed, and ween'd the while 
He saw a suffering angel smile — 
Ween'd he had heard a seraph sing. 
And sounds of a celestial string. 

But when young Owen met her view. 
She shriek'd, and to his bosom flew ; 
For, oft before, in Moodlaw bowers, 
They two had pass'd the evening hours. 
She was the loveliest mountain maid 
That e'er by grove or riv'iet stray'd ; 
Old Raeburn's child, the fairest flower 
That ever bloom'd in Eskdale-moor. 
'Twas she the sire that morn had seen. 
And judged to be the Fairy Queen ; 
'Twas she who framed the artless lay 
That stopp'd the v/arriors on their way 

Close to her lover's breast she clung. 
And round his neck enraptured hung — 
" Oh, my dear Owen ! haste and tell 
What caused thee dare this lonely dell, 



74 a?HE queen's wake. 

And seek your maid, at midnight still, 
Deep in the bowels of the hill ? 
Here, in this dark and drear abode, 
By all deserted but my God, 
Must I have reft the life he gave. 
Or lived in shame, a villain's slave. 
I was, at midnight's murkest hour. 
Stole from my father's stately tower, 
And never thought again to view 
The sun or sky's ethereal blue ; 
But since the first of Border men 
Has found me in this dismal den, 
I to his arms for shelter fly. 
With him to live, with him to die." 

How glov/'d brave Owen's manly face 
While in that lady's kind embrace ! 
Warm tears of joy his utterance stay'd ; 
" Oh, my loved Ann !" was all he said. 
Though well they loved, her high estate 
Caused Owen aye aloof to wait, 
And watch her bower, beside the rill. 
When twilight rock'd the breezes still. 
And waked the music of the grove 
To hymn the vesper song of love. 
There, underneath the greenwood bough, 
Oft had they breathed the tender vow. 

With Ann of Raeburn here they found 
The flowers of all the Border round ; 
From whom the strangest tale they hear 
That e'er astounded warrior's ear. 
'T would make even superstition blush. 
And all her tales of spirits hush. 

That night the spoilers ranged the vale, 
By Dryhope towers and j\Ieggat-dale. 
Ah ! little trow'd the fraudful train 
They ne'er should see their wealth again ! 
Their lemans and their mighty store. 
For which they nightly toils had bore. 
Full twenty autumn moons and more : 



(THE queen's wake. 75 

They little deem'd, when morning dawn'd, 
To meet the deadly Rippon brand ; 
And only find at their return. 
In their loved cave an early urn. 

Ill suits it simple bard to tell 
Of bloody work that there befell. 
He lists not deeds of death to sing — 
Of splinter'd spear and twanging string. 
Of piercing arrow's purpled wing, 
How falchions flash and helmets ring. 
Not one of all that prowling band, 
So long the terror of the land, 
Not one escaped their deeds to tell — 
All in the winding lab'rinth fell. 
The spoil was from the cave convey'd, 
Where in a heap the dead were laid : 
The outer cave our yeomen fill, 
And left them in the hollow hill. 

But still that dell and bourn beneath. 
The forest shepherd dreads as death. 
Not there at evening dares he stray, 
Though love impatient points the way — 
Though throbs his heart the maid to see, 
That's waiting by the trysting-tree. 
Even the old sire, so reverend grey, 
Ere turns the scale of night and day, 
Oft breathes the short and ardent prayer, 
That Heaven may guard his footsteps there ! 
His eyes, meantime, so dim with dread. 
Scarce ken the turf his foot must tread. 
For still 'tis told, and still believed. 
That there the spirits were deceived, 
And maidens from their grasp retrieved ; 
That this they still preserve in mind. 
And watch, when sighs the midnight wind, 
To wreck their rage on human kind. 

Old David, for this doughty raid, 
Was keeper of the forest made ; 



76 THE queen's wake. 

A trooper he of gallant fame, 
And first of all the Laidlaw name. 

E'er since, in Ettrick's glens so green, 
Spirits, though there, are seldom seen ; 
And fears of elf, and fairy raid. 
Have like a morning dream decay'd. 
The barefoot maid, of rosy hue, 
Dares from the heath-flower brush the dew, 
To meet her love in moonlight still, 
By flowery den or tinkling rill ; 
And well dares she till midnight stay, 
Among the coils of fragrant hay. 

True, some weak shepherds, gone astray 
As fell the dusk of Hallow-day, 
Have heard the tinkling sound aloof, 
And gentle tread of horse's hoof ; 
And flying swifter than the wind, 
Left all their scatter'd flocks behind. 

True, when the evening tales are told, 
When winter nights are dark and cold, 
The boy dares not to barn repair 
Alone, to say his evening prayer. 
Nor dare the maiden ope the door. 
Unless her lover walk before ; 
Then well can counterfeit the fright, 
If star-beam on the water light ; 
And to his breast in terror cling. 
For such a dread and dangerous thing. 

Oh, Ettrick ! shelter of my youth ! 
Thou sweetest glen of all the south ! 
Thy fairy tales and songs of yore, 
Shall never fire my bosom more. 
Thy winding glades, and mountains wild, 
The scenes that pleased me when a child, 
Each verdant vale and flowery lea. 
Still in my midnight dreams I see ; 
And waking oft, I sigh for thee. 



THE queen's wake. 77 

Thy hapless bard, though forced to roam 
Afar from thee, without a home, 
Still there his glowing breast shall turn, 
Till thy green bosom fold his urn : 
Then, underneath thy mountain stone, 
Shall sleep unnoticed and unknown. 



When ceased the shepherd's simple lay, 
With careless mien he lounged away. 
No bow he deign' d, nor anxious look'd 
How the gay throng their minstrel brook'd. 
No doubt within his bosom grew. 
That to his skill the prize was due. 
Well might he hope, for while he sung, 
Louder and louder plaudits rung ; 
And when he ceased his numbers wild, 
Fair Royalty approved and smiled. 
Long had the bard, with hopes elate. 
Sung to the low, the gay, the great ; 
And once had dared, at flatterer's call, 
To tune his harp in Branxholm hall ; 
But, nor his notes of soothing sound, 
Nor zealous word of bard renown'd, 
Might those persuade, that worth could be 
Inherent in such mean degree. 
But when the smile of sovereign fair 
Attested genuine nature there, 
Throbb'd high with rapture every breast. 
And all his merit stood confest. 

Diff*erent the next the herald named ; 
Warrior he was, in battle maim'd, 
When Lennox, on the downs of Kyle, 
O'erthrew Maconnel and Argyle. 
Unable more the sword to wield 
With dark Clan-Alpine in the field. 
Or rouse the dun-deer from her den 
With fierce Macfarlane and his men ; 
He strove to earn a minstrel name. 
And fondly nursed the sacred flame. 



78 THE queen's wake. 

Warm was his heart and bold his strain ; 
Wild fancies in his moody brain 
Gambol'dj unbridled and unbound, 
Lured by a shade, decoy'd by sound. 

In tender age, when mind was free, 
As standing by his nurse's knee, 
He heard a tale, so passing strange. 
Of injured spirit's cool revenge ; 
It chill'd his heart with blasting dread, 
Which never more that bosom fled. 
When passion's flush had fled his eye, 
And grey hairs told that youth was by ; 
Still quaked his heart at bush or stone. 
As wandering in the gloom alone. 

Where foxes roam, and eagles rave. 
And dark woods round Ben-Lomond wave, 
Once on a night — a night of dread ! — 
He held convention with the dead ; 
Brought warnings to the house of death. 
And tidings from a world beneath. 

Loud blew the blast — the evening came, 
The way was long, the minstrel lame ; 
The mountain's side was dern with oak, 
Darken'd with pine and ribb'd with rock ; 
Blue billows round its base were driven. 
Its top was steep'd in waves of heaven. 
The wood, the wind, the billows' moan. 
All spoke in language of their own. 
But too well to our minstrel known. 
Wearied, bewilder'd, in amaze. 
Hymning in heart the Virgin's praise, 
A cross he framed, of birchen bough, 
And 'neath that cross he laid him low ; 
Hid by the heath and Highland plaid, 
His old harp in his bosom laid. 
Oh ! when the winds that wander'd by. 
Sung on her breast their lullaby, 
How thrill'd the tones his bosom through, 
And deeper, holier, pour'd his vow ! 



THE QUE£2s^'s WAKE. 79 

No sleep was his — lie raised his e.ye, 
To note if dangerous place were nigh. 
There column'd rocks, abrupt and rude, 
Hung o'er his gateless solitude : 
The muffled sloe and tangling brier, 
Precluded freak or entrance here ; 
But yonder oped a little path, 
O'ershadow'd, deep, and dark as death. 
Trembling, he groped around his lair 
For mountain-ash, but none was there. 
Teeming with forms, his terror grew ; 
Heedful he watch'd, for well he knew, 
That in that dark and devious dell, 
Some lingering ghost or sprite must dwell ; 
So as he trow'd, so it befell. 

The stars were wrapt in curtain grey, 
The blast of midnight died away ; 
'Twas just the hour of solemn dread, 
When walk the spirits of the dead. 
Rustled the leaves with gentle motion, 
Groan'd his chilPd soul in deep devotion. 
The lake-fowl's wake was heard no more ; 
The wave forgot to brush the shore ; 
Hush'd was the bleat, on moor and hill ; 
The wandering clouds of heaven stood still. 

What heart could bear, w^hat eye could meet. 
The spirits in their lone retreat ? 
Rustled again the darksome dell ; 
Straight on the minstrel's vision fell 
A trembling and unwonted light. 
That show'd the phantoms to his sight. 

Came first a slender female form. 
Pale as the moon in winter storm ; 
A babe of sweet simplicity 
Clung to her breast as pale as she, 
And aye she sung its lullaby. 
That cradle-song of the phantom's child, 
Oh ! but it was soothing, holy, and wild ! 



80 THE queen's wake. 

But, oil ! tliat song can ill be sung 
By Lowland bard or Lowland tongue. 

Clje Spectre*^ (nrtatrle^Song. 
" Hush, my bonny babe ! hush, and be still ! 
Thy mother's arms shall shield thee from ill. 
Far have I borne thee, in sorrow and pain, 
To drink the breeze of the world again. 
The dew shall moisten thy brow so meek, 
And the breeze of midnight fan thy cheek, 
And soon shall we rest in the bow of the hill ; 
Hush, my bonny babe ! hush, and be still ! 
For thee have I travail'd in weakness and woe, 
The world above and the world below. 
My heart was soft, and it fell in the snare ; 
Thy father was cruel, but thou wert fair. 
I sinn'd, I sorrow'd, I died for thee ; 
Smile, my bonny babe ! smile on me ! 

See yon thick clouds of murky hue ; 
Yon star that peeps from its window blue ; 
Above yon clouds, that wander far, 
Away, above yon little star, 

There's a honie of peace that shall soon be thine. 
And there shalt thou see thy Father and mine. 
The flowers of the world shall bud and decay, 
The trees of the forest be weeded away ; 
But there shalt thou bloom for ever and aye. 
The time will come, I shall follow thee ; 
But long, long hence, that time shall be ! 
Smile now, my bonny babe ! smile on me I" 

Slow moved she on with dignity, 
Nor bush, nor brake, nor rock, nor tree, 
Her footsteps stay'd ; o'er cliff so bold. 
Where not the wren its foot could hold, 
Stately she wander'd, firm and free, 
Singing her soften'd lullaby. 

Three naked phantoms next came on ; 
They beckon'd low, pass'd, and were gone. 



THE QUEEN'S WAKE. 81 

Then came a troop of siieetecl dead, 
With shade of chieftain at their head, 
And with our bard, in brake forlorn, 
Held converse till the dawn of morn. 
Their ghostly rites, their looks, their mould, 
Or words, to man he never told ; 
But much he learn'd of mystery, 
Of that was past, and that should be. 
Thenceforth he troubles oft divined, 
And scarcely held his perfect mind ; 
Yet still the song, admired when young, 
He loved, and that in court he sung. 



MACGREGOR. 
THE ELEVENTH BARD's SONG. 

" Macgregor, Macgregor, remember our foemen ; 
The moon rises broad from the brow of Ben-Lomond ; 
The clans are impatient, and chide thy delay ; 
Arise ! let us bound to Glen-Lyon away." 

Stern scowPd the Macgregor, then silent and sullen^ 
He turn'd his red eye to the braes of Strathfillan : 
*' Go, Malcolm, to sleep, let the clans be dismiss'd ; 
The Campbells this night for Macgregor must rest." 

" Macgregor, Macgregor, our scouts have been flying, 
Three days, round the hills of M'Nab and Glen-Lyon ; 
Of riding and running such tidings they bear. 
We must meet them at home, else theyUl quickly be 
here." 

" The Campbell may come, as his promises bind him, 
And haughty M'Nab, with his giants behind him 3 
This night I am bound to relinquish the fray, 
And do what it freezes my vitals to say. 
Forgive me, dear brother, this horror of mind ; 
Thou know'st in the strife I was never behind, 
Nor ever receded a foot from the van. 
Or blench'd at the ire ur the prowess of man, 

F 



82 THE queen's wake. 

But I've sworn by tlie cross, by my Grod, and my all ! — 
An oath which I cannot and dare not recall — 
Ere the shadows of midnight fall east from the pile, 
To meet with a spirit this night in Glen-Gyle. 

Last night, in my chamber, all thoughtful and lone, 
I call'd to remembrance some deeds I had done, 
When enter'd a lady, with visage so wan. 
And looks, such as never were fasten'd on man. 
I knew her, oh, brother ! I knew her too well ! — 
Of that once fair dame such a tale I could tell. 
As would thrill thy bold heart : but how long she re- 

main'd, 
So rack'd was my spirit, my bosom so pain'd, 
I knew not — but ages seem'd short to the while. 
Though proffer the Highlands, nay, all the green isle, 
With length of existence no man can enjoy, 
The same to endure, the dread proffer I'd fly ! 
The thrice threaten'd pangs of last night to forego, 
Macgregor would dive to the mansions below. 
Despairing and mad, to futurity blind. 
The present to shun, and some respite to find — 
I swore, ere the shadow fell east from the pile, 
To meet her alone by the brook of Glen-Gyle. 

She told me, and turn'd my chill'd heart to a stone, 
The glory and name of Macgregor were gone : 
That the pine, which for ages had shed a bright halo 
Afar on the mountains of Highland Glen-Falo, 
Should wither and fall ere the turn of yon moon, 
Smit through by the canker of hated Colquhoun : 
That a feast on Macgregors each day should be com- 
mon. 
For years, to the eagles of Lennox and Lomond. 

A parting embrace, in one moment, she gave : 
Her breath was a furnace, her bosom the grave ! 
Then flitting elusive, she said, with a frown, 
* The mighty Macgregor shall yet be my own !'" 

" Macgregor, thy fancies are wild as the wind ; 
The dxxams of the night have disordered thy mind. 



inE queen's wake. 83 

Come, buckle thy panoply, march to the field — 
See, brother, how hack'd are thy helmet and shield ! 
Ay, that was M'Nab, in the height of his pride, 
When the lions of Dochart stood firm by his side. 
This night the proud chief his presumption shall rue ; 
Rise, brother, these chinks in his heart-blood we'll glue : 
Thy fantasies frightful shall flit on the wing. 
When loud with thy bugle Glen-Lyon shall ring." 

Like glimpse of the moon through the storm of the 
night, 
Macgregor^s red eye shed one sparkle of light : 
It faded — it darken'd — he shudder' d — he sigh'd — • 
" No ! not for the universe !" low he replied. 

Away went Macgregor, but went not alone ; 
To watch the dread rendezvous, Malcolm has gone. 
They oar'd the broad Lomond, so still and serene, 
And deep in her bosom, how awful the scene ! 
O'er mountains inverted the blue waters curl'd, 
And rock'd them on skies of a far nether world. 

All silent they went, for the time was approaching ; 
The moon the blue zenith already was touching ; 
No foot was abroad on the forest or hill, 
No sound but the lullaby sung by the rill : 
Young Malcolm at distance couch'd, trembling the 

while, 
Macgregor stood lone by the brook of Glen- Gyle. 

Few minutes had pass'd, ere they spied on the stream 
A skiff sailing light, where a lady did seem ; 
Her sail was the web of the gossamer's loom, 
The glow-worm her wakelight, the rainbow her boom ; 
A dim rayless beam was her prow and her mast. 
Like wold-fire at midnight, that glares on the waste. 
Though rough was the river with rock and cascade, 
No torrent, no rock, her velocity stay'd ; 
She wimpled the water to weather and lee, 
And heaved as if borne on the waves of the sea. 



84 THE queen's wake. 

Mute nature was roused in the bounds of the glen ; 
The wild deer of Gairtney abandon'd his den — 
Fled panting away, over river and isle, 
Nor once turn'd his eye to the brook of Glen-Gyle. 
The fox fled in terror ; the eagle awoke, 
As slumb'ring he dozed in the shelve of the rock ; 
Astonish'd, to hide in the moonbeam he flew. 
And screw'd the night-heaven till lost in the blue. 

Young Malcolm beheld the pale lady approach, 
The chieftain salute her, and shrink from her touch. 
He saw the Macgregor kneel down on the plain, 
As begging for something he could not obtain ; 
She raised him indignant, derided his stay. 
Then bore him on board, set her sail, and away. 

Though fast the red bark down the river did glide. 
Yet faster ran Malcolm adown by its side : 
" Macgregor ! Macgregor !" he bitterly cried ; 
" Macgregor ! Macgregor !" the echoes replied. 
He struck at the lady, but, strange though it seem, 
His sword only fell on the rocks and the stream ; 
But the groans from the boat, that ascended amain. 
Were groans from a bosom in horror and pain. 
They reach'd the dark lake, ajid bore lightly away : 
Macgregor is vanish'd for ever and aye ! 



Abrupt as glance of morning sun, 
The bard of Lomond's lay is done. 
Loves not the swain, from path of dew, 
At morn the golden orb to view, 
Rise broad and yellow from the main, 
While scarce a shadow lines the plain. 
Well knows he then the gathering cloud 
Shall all his noontide glories shroud. 
Like smile of morn before the rain, 
Appear'd the minstrel's mounting strain. 
As easy inexperienced hind. 
Who sees not coming rains and wind, 
The beacon of the dawning hour. 
Nor notes the blink before the shower, 



THE QUEE^-'S WAKE. 85 

Astonish' d, 'mid his oi^en grain, 
Sees round him pour the sudden rain — 
So look'd the still attentive throng. 
When closed at once Macfarlane's song. 

Time was it, when he 'gan to tell 
Of spectre stern, and barge of hell ; 
Loud, and more loud, the minstrel sung ; 
Loud, and more loud, the chords he rung ; 
Wild grew his looks, for well he knew 
The scene was dread, the tale was true ! 
And ere Loch Katrine's wave was won, 
Falter'd his voice, his breath was done. 
He raised his brown hand to his brow, 
To veil his eye's enraptured glow ; 
Flung back his locks of silver grey, 
Lifted his crutch, and limp'd away. 

The Bard of Clyde stept next in view ; 
Fair was his form, his harp was new ; 
His eyes were bright, his manner gay, 
But plain his garb, and plain his lay. 



EARL WALTER. 

THE TWELFTH BARD's SONG. 

" What makes Earl Walter pace the wood 
In the wan light of the moon ? 

Why alter'd is Earl Walter's mood 
So strangely and so soon V^ 

" Ah ! he is fallen to fight a knight 
Whom man could never tame, 

To-morrow, in his sovereign's sight, 
Or bear perpetual shame." 

"Go warn the Clyde, go warn the Ayr, 

Go warn them suddenly. 
If none will fight for Earl Walter, 

Some one may fight for me," 



THE QUEEN S WAKE. 

" Now hold your tongue, my daughter dear, 
Now hold your tongue for shame, 

For never shall my son Walter 
Disgrace his father's name. 

Shall ladies tell, and minstrels sing, 

How lord of Scottish hlood 
By proxy fought before his king ? 

No, never ! by the rood 1" 

Earl Walter rose ere it was day, 

For battle made him boun' ; 
Earl Walter mounted his bonny grey, 

And rode to Stirling town. 

Old Hamilton from the tower came down, 

" Go saddle a steed for me, 
And I'll away to Stirling town 

This deadly bout to see. 

Mine eye is dim, my locks are grey. 

My cheek is furr'd and wan ; 
Ah, me ! but I have seen the day 

I fear'd no single man ! 

Bring me my steed," said Hamilton ; 

" Darcie his vaunts may rue ; 
Whoever slays my only son 

Must fight the father too. 

Whoever fights my noble son. 

May foin the best he can ; 
Whoever braves Wat Hamilton, 

Shall know he braves a man." 

And there was riding in belt and brand, 
And running o'er holt and lea ; 

For all the lords of fair Scotland 
Came there the fight to see. 

And squire, and groom, and baron bold, 

Trooping in thousands came, 
And many a hind and warrior old, 

And many a lovely dame. 



THE queen's wake, 87 

When good Earl Walter rode the ring 

Upon his mettled grey, 
There was none so ready as our good king 

To bid that earl good day. 

For one so gallant and so young, 

Oh, many a heart beat high ; 
And no fair eye in all the throng 

Nor rosy cheek was dry. 

But up then spoke the king's daughter, 

Fair Margaret was her name, 
** If we should lose brave Earl Walter, 

My sire is sore to blame. 

Forbid the fight, my liege, I pray, 

Upon my bended knee." 
^' Daughter, I'm loath to say you nay ; 

It cannot, must not be." 

'• Proclaim it round," the princess cried, 

" Proclaim it suddenly ; 
If none will fight for Earl Walter, 

Some one may fight for me. 

In Douglas-dale I have a tower, 

With many a holm and hill, 
I'll give them all, and ten times more, 

To him will Darcie kill." 

But up then spoke old Hamilton, 

And dofi''d his bonnet blue ; 
In his sunk eye the tear-drop shone, 

And his grey locks o'er it flew : — 

" Cease, cease thou lovely royal maid, 

Small cause hast thou for pain ; 
Wat Hamilton shall have no aid 

'Gainst lord of France or Spain. 

I love my boy, but should he fly. 

Or other for him fight, 
Heaven grant that first his parent's eye 

May set in starless night 1" 



88 THE queen's wake. 

Young Margaret blusli'd, lier weeping stay'd, 

And quietly look'd on : 
Now Margaret was the fairest maid 

On whom the daylight shone. 

Her eye was like the star of love, 
That blinks across the evening dim; 

The locks that waved that eye above. 
Like light clouds curling round the sun. 

When Darcie enter'd in the ring, 
A shudder round the circle flew ; 

Like men who from a serpent spring, 
They startled at the view. 

His look so fierce, his crest so high, 

His belts and bands of gold. 
And the glances of his charger's eye 

Were dreadful to behold. 

But when he saw Earl Walter's face. 

So rosy and so young, 
Pie frown'd, and sneer'd with haughty grace. 

And round disdainful flung. 

" What ! dost thou turn my skill to sport, 

And break thy jests on me? 
Think'st thou I sought the Scottish court 

To play with boys like thee ? 

Fond youth, go home and learn to ride 5 

For pity get thee gone ; 
Tilt with the girls and boys of Clyde, 

And boast of what thou'st done. 

If Darcie's spear but touch thy breast, 

It flies thy body through ; 
If Darcie's sword come o'er thy crest, 

It cleaves thy heart in two." 

" I came not here to vaunt, Darcie ; 

I came not here to scold ; 
It ill befits a knight like thee 

Such proud discourse to hold. 



THE QUEEN S WAKE. 

To-morrow boast, amid the rout, 
Of deeds which thou hast done ; 

To-day beware thy saucy snout ; 
Rude blusterer, come on ! '' 

Rip went the spurs in either steed, 
To different posts they sprung ; 

Quiver'd each spear o'er charger's head ; 
Forward each warrior hung. 

The horn blew once — the horn blew twice- 

Oh, many a heart beat high ! 
'Twas silence all ! — the horn blew thrice — 

Dazzled was every eye. 

Hast thou not seen, from heaven, in ire 

The eagle swift descend ? 
Hast thou not seen the sheeted fire 

The lowering darkness rend I 

Not faster glides the eagle grey 

Adown the yielding wind ; 
Not faster bears the bolt away. 

Leaving the storm behind ; 

Than flew the warriors on their way, 

With full suspended breath — 
Than flew the warriors on their way 

Across the field of death. 

So fierce the shock, so loud the clang. 

The gleams of fire were seen ; 
The rocks and towers of Stirling rang. 

And the red blood fell between. 

Earl Walter's grey was borne aside, 

Lord Darcie's black held on. 
" Oh ! ever alack," fair Margaret cried ; 

" The brave Earl Walter's gone 1" 
" Oh ! ever alack," the king replied, 

" That ever the deed was done !" 

Earl Walter's broken coi-slet doff 'd, 
He turn'd with lighten'd eye j 



90 THE queen's wake. 

His glancing spear lie raised aloft, 
And seem'd to threat the sky. 

Lord Dareie's spear, aim'd at his breast. 

He parried dext'rously ; 
Then caught him rudely by the wrist. 

Saying, " Warrior, come with me !" 

Lord Darcie drew, Lord Darcie threw, 

But threw and drew in vain ; 
Lord Darcie drew, Lord Darcie threw, 

And spurr'd his black amain. 

Down came Lord Darcie — casque and brand 

Loud rattled on the clay ; 
Down came Earl Walter — hand in hand, 

And head to head, they lay. 

Lord Dareie's steed turn'd to his lord. 
And, trembling, stood behind ; 

But off Earl Walter^s dapple scour'd 
Far fleeter than the wind ; 

Nor stop, nor stay, nor gate, nor ford, 
Could make her look behind. 

O'er holt, o'er hill, o'er slope and slack, 

She sought her native stall ; 
She liked not Dareie's doughty black. 

Nor Dareie's spear at all. 

" Even go thy ways," Earl Walter cried, 

" Since better may not be ; 
I'll trust my life with weapon tried, 

But never again with thee. 

Rise up, Lord Darcie, sey thy brand, 

And fling thy mail away ; 
For foot to foot, and hand to hand, 

We'll now decide the day." 

So said, so done ; their helms they flung, 
Their doublets link'd and sheen ; 

And hauberk, armlet, cuirass, rung 
Promiscuous on the green. 



THE queen's wake. 01 

" Now, Darcie ! now, thy dreaded name, 

That oft has chilPd a foe, 
Thy hard-earn'd honours, and thy fame, 

Depend on every blow. 

Sharp be thine eye, and firm thy hand 5 

Thy heart unmoved remain ; 
For never was the Scottish brand 

Uprear'd, and rear'd in vain." 

" Now do thy best, young Hamilton, 

Rewarded shalt thou be ; 
Thy king, thy country, and thy kin, 

All, all depend on thee ! 

Thy father's heart yearns for his son, 

The ladies' cheeks grow wan ; 
Wat Hamilton, Wat Hamilton, 

Now prove thyself a man !" 

What makes Lord Darcie shift and dance 

So fast around the plain ? 
What makes Lord Darcie strike and lance^ 

As passion fired his brain ? 

" Lay on, lay on," said Hamilton ; 

" Thou bearest thee boist'rously ; 
If thou shouldst pelt till day be done. 

Thy weapon I defy." 

What makes Lord Darcie shift and wear 

So fast around the plain ? 
Why is Lord Darcie's hollands fair 

All stripp'd with crimson grain ? 

The first blow that Earl Walter made, 

He clove his bearded chin. 
" Beshrew. thy heart," Lord Darcie said, 

" Ye sharply do begin !" 

The next blow that Earl Walter made. 

Quite through the gare it ran. 
" Now by my faith," Lord Darcie said, 

** That's stricken like a mac," 



92 THE queek's wake. 

The third blow that Earl Walter made, 

It scoop'd his lordly side. 
" Now, by my troth," Lord Darcie said, 

" Thy marks are ill to bide." 

Lord Darcie's sword he forced a-hight, 
And tripp'd him on the plain. 

" Oh, ever alack," then cried the knight, 
" I ne'er shall rise agahi !" 

When good Earl Walter saw he grew 

So pale, and lay so low. 
Away his brace of swords he threw. 

And raised his fainting foe. 

Then rang the lists with shouts of joy. 
Loud and more loud they grew ; 

And many a bonnet to the sky. 
And many a coif, they threw. 

The tear stood in the father's eye, 

He wiped his aged brow, 
" Give me thy hand, my gallant boy, 

I knew thee not till now. 

My liege, my king, this is my son 

Wliom I present to thee ; 
Nor would I change Wat Hamilton 

For any lad I see 1" 

" Welcome, my friend and warrior old 5 

This gallant son of thine 
Is much too good for baron bold, 

He must be son of mine ! 

For he shall wed my daughter dear, 
The flower of fair Scotland ; 

The badge of honour he shall wear, 
And sit at my right hand. 

And he shall have the lands of Kyle, 
And royal bounds of Clyde ; 

And he shall have all Arran's isle 
To dower his royal bride." 



THE QIJEEN^S WAKE. 93 

The princess smiled, the princess flush' d, 

Oh, but her heart was fain ; 
And aye her cheek of beauty blush'd 

Like rose-bud in the rain. 

From this the Hamiltons of Clyde 

Their royal lineage draw ; 
And thus was won the fairest bride 

That Scotland ever saw ! 



When ceased the lay, the plaudits rung, 
Not for the bard or song he sung ; 
But every eye with pleasure shone, 
And cast its smiles on one alone — 
That one was princely Hamilton ! 
And well the gallant chief approved 
The bard who sung of sire beloved, 
And pleased were all the court to see 
The minstrel hail'd so courteously. 

Again is every courtier's gaze 
Speaking suspense, and deep amaze ; 
The bard was stately, dark, and stern — 
'Twas Drummond, from the moors of Ern. 
Tall was his frame, his forehead high, 
Still and mysterious was his eye ; 
His look was like a winter day, 
When storms and winds have sunk away. 

Well versed was he in holy lore ; 
In cloister'd dome the cowl he wore ; 
But wearied with the eternal strain 
Of formal breviats, cold and vain, 
He woo'd, in depth of Highland dale. 
The silver spring and mountain gale. 

In grey Glen-Ample's forest deep, 
Hid from the rain's and tempest's sweep, 
In bosom of an aged wood 
His solitary cottage stood. 
Its walls were bastion'd, dark, and dern, 
Dark was its roof of filmot fern, 



94 THE queen's wake. 

And dark tlie vista down the linn ; 
But all was love and peace within. 
Religion, man's first friend and best, 
Was in that home a constant guest : 
There, sweetly, every morn and even, 
Warm orisons were pour'd to heaven : 
And every cliff Glen- Ample knew. 
And greenwood on her banks that grew, 
In answer to his bounding string. 
Had learn'd the hymns of heaven to sing 5 
With many a song of mystic lore, 
Rude as when sung in days of yore. 

His were the snowy flocks, that stray'd 
Adown Glen-Airtney's forest glade ; 
And his the goat, and chestnut hind, 
Where proud Ben-Vorlich cleaves the wind j 
There oft, when suns of summer shone. 
The bard would sit and muse alone, 
Of innocence, expell'd by man ; 
Of nature's fair and wondrous plan ; 
Of the eternal throne sublime ; 
Of visions seen in ancient time ; 
Till his rapt soul would leave her home 
In visionary worlds to roam. 
Then would the mists that wander'd by. 
Seem hovering spirits to his eye ; 
Then would the breeze's whistling sweep. 
Soft lulling in the cavern deep, 
Seem to the enthusiast's dreaming ear 
The words of spirits whispering near. 

Loathed his firm soul the measured chime 
And florid films of modern rhyme ; 
No other lays became his tongue 
But those his rude forefathers sung. 
And when by wandering minstrel warn'd, 
The mandate of his queen he learn'd. 
So much he prized the ancient strain, 
High hopes had he the prize to gain. 



THE queen's wake. 95 



With modest yet majestic mien, 
He tuned his harp of solemn strain : 
Oh, list the tale, ye fair and young, 
A lay so strange was never sung ! 



KILMENY. 

THE THIRTEENTH BARd's SONG. 

Bonnye Kilraeny gede up the glen ; 
But it walsna to meite Duneira's men, 
Nor the rozy munke of the isle to see, 
For Kilmeny was pure as pure culde be. 
It was only to hear the yorline syng. 
And pu' the blew kress-flouir runde the spryng ; 
To pu' the hyp and the hyndberrye, 
And the nytt that hung fra the hesil tree ; 
For Kilmeny was pure as pure culde be. 
But lang may her minny luke ouir the wa'. 
And lang may scho seike in the greinwood schaw : 
Lang the laird of Duneira bleme. 
And lang lang greite or Kilmeny come heme. 

Quhan mony lang day had commit and fledde, 
Quhan grief grew caulm, and hope was deade, 
Quhan mes for Kilmeny's soul had beine sung, 
Quhan the bedis-man had prayit, and the deide-bell 

rung; 
Lete, lete in ane glomyn, quhan all was still, 
Quhan the freenge was reid on the wastlin hill, 
The wudde was sere, the mooni' the wene. 
The reike of th6 cot hang ouir the playne, 
Like ane littil wee cludde in the world its lene ; 
Quhan the ingil lowit with an eiry leme, 
Lete, lete in the glomyn Kilmeny came heme ! 

" Kilmeny, Kilmeny, quhair haif ye beine ? 
Lang haif we socht beth holt and deine ; 
By lynn, by furde, and greinwudde tree, 
Yet ye ix helsome and fayir to see. 



96 THE queer's wake. 

Quhair gat ye tliat joup of tlie lilye sclieiiie ? 
That bonny snoode of the byrk se greine ? 
And these rosis, the fayrist that ever war seine I 
— Kilmeny, Kilmeny, quhair haif ye beine ?" 

Kilmeny luckit up with ane lovelye grace, 
But nae smyle was seine on Kilraeny's face ; 
Als still was her luke, and als still was her e'e, 
Als the stillnesse that lay on the emerant lee, 
Or the myst that sleips on ane waveless sea. 
For Kilmeny had beine scho kend nocht quhair, 
And Kilmeny had seine quhat she culde not deelayre ; 
Kilmeny had beine quhair the cock nevir crew, 
Quhair the rayne nevir fell, and the wynd nevir blew. 
But it seemit as the herpe of the skye had rung, 
And the ayries of heauin playit runde her tung, 
Quhan scho spak of the luvelye formis scho had seine, 
And ane land quhair synn had nevir beine — 
Ane land of love, and ane land of lychte, 
Withoutten sonne, or mone, or nycht : 
Quhair the ryver swait ane lyving streime. 
And the lychte ane pure and cludless beime : 
The land of vision it wald seime. 
And still ane everlestyng dreime. 

In yond greinwudde there is a waike, 
And in that waike there is a wene, 

And in that wene there is a maike, 
That nouther has flesh, bluid, nor bene ; 
And dune in yon greinwudde he walkis his lene. 

In that greine wene Kilmeny lay. 
Her bosom happit with flouris gay ; 
But the ayre was soft, and the silence deipe, 
And bonnye Kilmeny fell sunde asleipe. 
Scho kend ne mair, nor openit her e'e. 
Till wekit by the hymnis of ane farr countrye. 

Scho wekit on ane cuche of the sylk se slim, 
All stryppit with the barris of the raynbowis rim ; 
And luvlye beingis runde war ryfe, 
Quha erst had travellit mortyl lyfe ; 



THE queen's wake. 97 

And aye they smilet, and 'gan to speire, 

** What spirit hes brochte this mortyl heire ?" 

" Lang haif I raikit the worild wide," 
Ane meike and reverent fere reply it ; 
" Beth nycht and day I haif watchit the fayre, 
Eident a thousande eiris and mayre. 
Yes, I haif watchit ouir ilk degree, 
Quhairevir blurais femenitye ; 
And sinless vyrgin, free of stain 
In minde and bodye, faund I nane. 
Nevir, sen the banquhet of tyme, 
Fand I vyrgin in her pryme, 
Quhill anis this bonnye mayden I saw 
As spotless as the mornyng snaw : 
Full twentye eiris seho has levit as fre 
A^s the spirits that sojourn this countrye. 
I haif brochte her away fra the snairis of men, 
That synn or dethe scho nevir may ken." 

They claspit her weste and handis fayre. 
They kissit her cheik, and they kembit her hayir ; 
And runde cam ilka blumyng fere, 
Sayn, " Bonnye Kilmeny, ye're welcome here ! 
Wemyn are freeit of the littand scorne — 
Oh, blest be the daye Kilmeny was born ! 
Now shall the land of the spiritis see. 
Now shall it ken quhat ane womyn may be ! 
Mony long eir, in sorrow and pain, 
Mony long eir thro' the worild we haif gane, 
Comyshonit to watch fayir womynkinde. 
For it's they quha nurice the immortyl minde. 
We haif watchit their stepis as the dawnyng shone, 
And deip in the greinwudde walkis alone. 
By lilye bouir, and silken bedde. 
The viewless teiris haif ouir them shedde ; 
Haif soothit their ardent myndis to sleep. 
Or left the cuche of luife to weip. 

We haif sein ! we haif sein ! — but the tyme mene come, 
And the angelis will blush at the day of doom ! 

G 



9^8 THE QUEEN S WAKE. 

Oh, wald the fayrest of mortyl kynde 
Aye keipe thilke holye troths in mynde — 
That kyndred spiritis ilk motion see, 
Quha watch their wayis with anxious e'e, 
And grieve for the guiii of humanity e ! 
Ohj sweit to hevin the maydenis prayer, 
And the siche that hevis ane bosom se fayre ! 
And deir to hevin the wordis of truthe, 
And the praise of vertu fra beautyis muthe ! 
And deire to the viewless formis of ayre, 
The mynde that kythis as the body fayre ! 

Oh, bonnye Kilmeny ! fre fra stayne, 
Gin evir ye seike the worild agene, 
That worild of synn, of sorrow, and feire, 
Oh, tell of the joyis that are way ting heire ! 
And tell of the sygnis ye shall shortlye see — ■■ 
Of the tymes that are now, and the tymes that shall be.' 

They liftit Kilmeny, they ledde her away, 
And scho walkit in the lychte of ane sonless day : 
The skye was ane dome of crystel brichte. 
The fountyn of vizion and fountyn of lichte : 
The emerant feildis war of dazzling glow, 
And the flouris of everlestyng blow. 
Then deipe in the streime her bodye they layde, 
That her yuith and beautye mocht nevir fede ; 
And they smylit on hevin, quhan they saw her lye 
In the streime of lyfe that wanderit by. 
And scho herde ane songe, scho herde it sung, 
Scho kend nochte quhair ; but se sweitlye it rung, 
It fell on her eare lyke ane dreime of the morne : 
" Oh ! blest be the daye Kilmeny was born ! 
Now shall the land of the spiritis see. 
Now shall it ken quhat ane womyn may be ! 
The Sonne that shynis on the worild se brychte, 
Ane borrowit gleide frae the fountaine of lychte ; 
And the mone that sleikis the skye se dun, 
Lyke ane gouden bow, or ane beimless sun. 
Shall skulk awaye, and be seine ne mayir. 
And the angelis shall miss them travelling the ff}Te. 



THE queen's wake. 99 

But lang, lang aftir bethe nyclit and day, 
Quhan the sonne and the worild haif fleeit awaye — 
Quhan the synnir has gene to his wesome doome, 
Kilmeny shall smyle in eternal bloome !" 

They soofit her awaye to ane mountyn greine, 
To see quhat mortyl nevir had seine ; 
And they seted her hiche on ane purpil swerde, 
And bade her heide quhat scho saw and herde ; 
And note the chaingis the spiritis wrochte, 
For now scho leevit in the land of thochte. 
Scho lukit. and scho saw ne sonne nor skyis, 
But ane crystel dome of a thusend dyis. 
Scho lukit, and scho saw ne land arychte, 
But ane endless whirle of glory and lychte. 
And radiant beingis went and came 
Far swifter than wynde or the lynkit flame. 
Scho haide her een fra the daizling view ; 
Scho lukit agene, and the scene was new. 

Scho saw ane sonne on a simmer skye. 
And cludis of amber sailing by ; 
Ane luvlye land anethe her laye, 
And that land had lekis and mountaynis grey ; 
And that land had valleys and horye pylis. 
And merlit seas, and a thusande ylis. 
Scho saw the corne waive on the vaile, 
Scho saw the deire rin down the daile ; 
And mony a mortyl toiling sore — 
And scho thochte scho had seine the land before, 

Scho saw ane ledye sit on ane throne, 
The fayrest that evir the sun shone on ! 
Ane lyon lickit her hand of mylke, 
And scho held him in ane leish of sylke ; 
And ane leifu mayden stude at her knee, 
With ane sylver wand and meltyng e'e. 
But ther cam ane leman out of the west 
To woo the ledye that he luvit best ; 
And he sent ane boy her herte to prove, 
And scho took him in, and scho callit him Love ; 



100 THE queen's wake. 

But quhan to her breist he gan to cling, 
Scho dreit the payne of the serpentis styng. 

Than ane gruff untowyrd gysart came, 
And he hundit the lyon on his dame ; 
And the leifu mayde with the meltyng eye, 
Scho droppit ane tear, and passit by ; 
And scho saw quhill the queen fra the lyon fled, 
Quhill the bonniest flouir in the world lay deide. 
Ane koffin was set on a distant playne, 
And scho saw the reid bluid fall like rayne : 
Then bonnye Kilmeny's herte grew saire. 
And scho turnit away, and dochte luke ne maire. 

Then the gruff grim keryl girnit amain. 
And they trampit him downe, but he rase againe ; 
And he baitit the lyon to diedis of weir, 
Quhill he lepit the blude to the kyngdome deire. 
But the lyon grew straung, and dainger-prief, 
Quhan crownit with the rose and the claiver leife ; 
Then he lauchit at the keryl and chasit him away 
To feide with the deire on the mountayn grey : 
He groulit at the keryl, and he geckit at hevin^ 
But his merk was set and his erilis given. 
Kihneny a while her een withdrewe — 
Scho iukit agene, and the scene was new. 

Scho saw arunde her, fayir unfurlit, 
Ane half of all the glowing worild, 
Q,uhair oceanis rowit, and ryveris ran. 
To bunde the aymis of sinful man. 
Scho saw ane pepil, ferse and fell. 
Burst fra their bundis like feindis of hell ; 
The lilye grew, and the egil flew. 
And scho herkit on her revening crew. 
The wedois wailit, and the reid bluid ran, 
And scho thretinit ane end to the race of man : 
Scho nevir lenit nor stoode in awe, 
Quhill claught by the lyonis deadly paw. 
Oh ! then the egil swinkit for lyfe. 
And brainzelit up ane mortyl stryfe ; 



THE queen's wake. 101 

But flew sclio nortli, or flew scho sutlie, 
Scho met with the goul of the lyonis muthe. 

With ane mootit wing and wefu mene, 
The egil sochte her eiry agene ; 
But lang may scho cour in her bloodye neste, 
And lang, lang sleik her oundit breste^ 
Afore scho sey ane ither fiychte. 
To play with the norlan lyonis mychte. 

To sing of the syehtis Kilmeny saw, 
Se far surpassing naturis law, 
The syngeris voice wald sink away, 
And the stryng of his herpe wald cease to play. 
But scho saw quhill the sorrouis of man war by, 
And all was luife and hermonye ; 
Quhill the sternis of hevin fell lownly away, 
Lyke the flekis of snaw on ane winter day. 

Then Kilmeny beggit agene to see 
The freindis scho had left in her ayn countrye, 
To tell of the place quhair scho had been. 
And the wonderis that lay in the land unseen ; 
To warn the living maydenis fayir. 
The luvit of hevin, the spiritis care, 
That all quhase myndis unmelit remaine 
Shall blume in beauty quhan tyme is gene. 

With distant musyk, soft and deipe, 
They lullit Kilmeny sunde asleipe ; 
And quhan scho wekinit scho lay her lene 
All happit with flouris, in the greinwudde wene. 
Quhan sevin lang yeiris had cumit and fiedde, 
Quhan greif was caulm and hope was deade, 
Quhan scairse was rememberit Kilmeny's neme, 
Lete, lete in the gloamyn, Kilmeny cam heme .' 

And oh, her beauty was fayir to see, 
But still and steedfast was her e'e ; 
Her seymar was the lilye flouir, 
And her cheik the moss-rose in the shouir, 



102 THE queen's wake. 

And her voice lyke the distant melodye 

That floatis alang the silver sea. 

But scho luvit to raike the lenely glen, 

And keepit away fra the hauntis of men ; 

Her holy hymnis unherde to syng, 

To suke the flouris, and drynk the spryng. 

But quhairevir her peacefu' form appeirit, 

The wylde besties of the hill war cheirit ; 

The ouf playit lythely runde the feilde, 

The lordlye byson lowit and kneilit. 

The dun-deire wooit with manyr bland, 

And courit aneath her lilye hand. 

And quhan at evin the woodlandis rung, 

Quhan hymnis of othir worildis scho sung, 

In ecstacye of sweite devotion, 

Oh, then the glen was all in motion. 

The wylde bestis of the foreste came, 

Brak fra their buchtis and faldis the tame, 

And govit by charmit and amaizit ; 

Even the dull cattil crunit and gazit. 

And waulit about in anxious payne 

For some the mysterye to explayne. 

The bizerd cam with the thrystle-coke, 

The korbye left hir houf in the roke. 

The blackburd alang with the egil flew, 

The hynde cam trippyng ouir the dew ; 

The ouf and the kydd their raike began, 

And the tod, and the lam, and the leurit ran ; 

The hauke and the heme attour them hung, 

And the meril and the'maivis forehooit their yung j 

And all in ane peacefu' ryng war hurlit — 

It was lyke ane eve in a sinless worild. 

Quhan a munthe and a day had comit and gene, 
Kilmeny sochte the greinwudde wene ; 
There layde her doune on the levis se greine. 
But Kilmeny on yirth was nevir mayre seine. 
But oh, the wordis that fell fra her muthe 
War wordis of wonder, and wordis of truth e ; 



THE queen's wake. 103 

But all tlie land was in fiere and dreide, 

For they kendna whether scho was lyving or deide. 

It walsna her heme, and scho culdna remayne ; 

Scho left this worild of sorrow and payne, 

And returnit to the land of thochte agene. 



He ceased ; and all with kind concern 
Bless'd in their hearts the bard of Ern. 

By that the chill and piercing air, 
The pallid hue of ladies fair, 
The hidden yawn, and drumly eye. 
Loudly announced the morning nigh. 
Beckon'd the queen with courteous smile 
And breathless silence gazed the while. 

" I hold it best, my lords," she said, 
" For knight, for dame, and lovely maid, 
At wassail, wake, or revel hall, 
To part before the senses pall. 
Sweet though the draught of pleasure be, 
Why should we drain it to the lee ? 
Though here the minstrel's fancy play. 
Light as the breeze of summer-day ; 
Though there in solemn cadence flow. 
Smooth as the night- wind o'er the snow ; 
Now bound away with rolling sweep, 
Like tempest o'er the raving deep ; 
High on the morning's golden screen. 
Or casement of the rainbow lean ;— 
Such beauties were in vain prolong'd. 
The soul is cloy'd, the minstrel wrong'd. 

Loud is the morning blast, and chill. 
The snow-drift speeds along the hill ; 
Let ladies of the storm beware. 
And lords of ladies take a care ; 
From lanes and alleys guard them well. 
Where lurking ghost or sprite may dwell ; 
But most avoid the dazzling flare^ 
And spirit of the morning air ; 



104 THE queen's wake. 

Hide from their eyes that hideous form, 
The ruthless angel of the storm. 
T wish, for every gallant's sake, 
That none may rue our royal wake ; 
I wish what most his heart approves. 
And every lady what she loves — 
Sweet be her sleep on bed of d^wn, 
And pleasing be her dreams till noon. 
And when you hear the bugle's strain, 
I hope to see you all again." 

Whether the queen to fear inclined, 
Or spoke to cheer the minstrel's mind, 
Certes, she spoke with meaning leer. 
And ladies smiled her words to hear. 
Yet, though the dawn of morning shone, 
No lady from that night-wake gone, 
Not even the queen, durst sleep alone. 
And scarce had sleep, with throb and sigh, 
O'er breast of snow and moisten'd eye 
Outspread his shadowy canopy. 
When every fervid female mind. 
Or sail'd with witches on the wind. 
Drank, unobserved, the potent wine, 
Or floated on the foamy brine. 
Some strove the land of thought to win, 
Impell'd by hope, withstood by sin ; 
And some with angry spirit stood 
By lonely stream or pathless wood. 
And oft was heard the broken sigh. 
The half-form'd prayer, and smother'd cry 
So much the minds of old and young 
Were moved by what the minstrels sung. 
What Lady Gordon did or said 
Could not be learn'd from lady's maid. 
And Huntley swore and shook his head. 
But she and all her buskin'd train 
Appear'd not at the wake again. 



THE QUEEN'S WAKE. 105 



NIGHT THE THIRD. 

The storm had ceased to shroud the hill ; 
The morning's breath was pure and chill ; 
And when the sun rose from the main. 
No eye the glory could sustain. 
The icicles so dazzling bright, 
The spreading wold so smooth and white, 
The cloudless sky, the air so sheen, 
That roes on Pentland's top were seen ; 
And Grampian mountains, frowning high, 
Seem'd froze amid the northern sky. 
The frame was braced, the mind set free 
To feat or brisk hilarity. 

The sun, far on his southern throne, 
Glow'd in stern majesty alone : 
'Twas like the loved, the toilsome day, 
That dawns on mountains west away, 
When the furr'd Indian hunter hastes 
Far up his Appalachian wastes. 
To range the savage haunts, and dare 
In his dark home the sullen bear. 
And ere that noonday sun had shone 
Right on the banks of Duddingston, 
Heavens ! what a scene of noise and glee, 
And busy brisk anxiety ! 
There age and youth their pastime take 
On the smooth ice that chain'd the lake : 
The Highland chief, the Border knight, 
In waving plumes and baldricks bright, 
Join in the bloodless friendly war. 
The sounding stone to hurl afar. 
The hair-breadth aim, the plaudits due. 
The rap, the shout, the ardour grew. 
Till drowsy day her curtain drew. 

The youth, on cramps of polish'd steel, 
Join'd in the race, the curve, the wheel ; 



106 THE queen's wake. 

With arms oiitstretcli'd, and foot aside, 
Like lightning o'er the lake they glide ; 
And eastward far their impulse keep, 
Like angels journeying o'er the deep. 

When night her spangled flag unfurl'd 
Wide o'er a wan and sheeted world. 
In keen debate homeward they hie, 
For well they knew the wake was nigh. 

By mountain sheer and column tall, 
How solemn was that evening fall ! 
The air was calm, the stars were bright, 
The hoar frost flighter'd down the night ; 
But oft the list'ning groups stood still, 
For spirits talk'd along the hill. 
The fairy tribes had gone to won 
In southland climes beneath the sun ; 
By shady woods, and waters sheen, 
And vales of everlasting green. 
To sing of Scotia's woodlands wild, 
Where human face had never smiled. 
The ghost had left the haunted yew, 
The wayward bogle fled the clough ; 
The darksome pool of crisp and foam 
Was now no more the kelpie's home : 
But polar spirits sure had spread 
O'er hills which native fays had fled ; 
For all along, from cliff" and tree. 
On Arthur's hill and Salsbury, 
Came voices floating down the air 
From viewless shades that linger'd there : 
The words were fraught with mystery — 
Voices of men they could not be. 
Youths turn'd their faces to the sky, 
AVith beating heart and bended eye ; 
Old chieftains walk'd with hasten'd tread. 
Loath that their hearts should bow to dread : 
They fear'd the spirits of the hill 
To sinful Scotland boded ill. 



THE queen's ware. 107 

Orion up his baldrick drew, 
The evening star v/as still in view ; 
Scarce had the Pleiades clear'd the main, 
Or Charles reyoked his golden wain, 
When from the palace turrets rang 
The bugle's note with warning clang ; 
Each tower, each spire, in music spake, 
" Haste, nobles, to Queen Mary's wake/' 
The blooming maid ran to bedight. 
In spangled lace and robe of white — 
That graceful emblem of her youth, 
Of guileless heart, and maiden truth. 
The matron deck'd her candid frame 
In moony brooch and silk of flame ; 
And every earl and baron bold 
Sparkled in clasp and loop of gold. 
'Twas the last night of hope and fear, 
That bards could sing or sovereign hear ; 
And just ere rose the Christmas sun. 
The envied prize was lost and won. 

The bard that night who foremost came 
Was not enrolPd, nor known his name ; 
A youth he was, of manly mould, 
Gentle as lamb, as lion bold ; 
But his fair face and forehead high 
Glow'd with intrusive modesty. 

'Twas said, by bank of southland stream 
Glided his youth in soothing dream ; 
The harp he loved, and wont to stray 
Far to the wilds and woods away. 
And sing to brooks that gurgled by. 
Of maiden's form and maiden's eye ; 
That, when this dream of youth was past. 
Deep in the shade his harp he cast ; 
In busy life his cares beguiled. 
His heart was true, and fortune smiled. 
But when the royal wake began. 
Joyful he came the foremost man, 



108 THE queen's wake. 

To see the matchless bard approved, 
And list the strains he once had loved. 

Two nights had pass'd— the bards had sung— . 
Queen Mary's harp from ceiling hung, 
On which was graved her lovely mould. 
Beset with crowns and flowers of gold ; 
And many a gem of dazzling dye 
Glow'd on that prize to minstrel's eye. 

The youth had heard each minstrel's strain, 
And, fearing northern bard would gain, 
To try his youthful skill was moved, 
Not for himself, but friends he loved. 



MARY SCOTT. 
THE FOURTEENTH BARD's SONG. 

Lord Pringle's steed neighs in the stall, 
His panoply is irksome grown, 

His plumed helm hangs in the hall, 
His broad claymore is berry brown. 

No more his bugle's evening peal 
Bids vassal arm and yeoman ride, 

To drive the deer of Otterdale, 
Or foray on the border side. 

Instead of whoop and battle knell, 
Of warrior's song, and revel free. 

Is heard the lute's alluring swell 
Within the halls of Torwoodlee. 

Sick lies his heart, without relief ; 

'Tis love that breeds the warrior's woe, 
For daughter of a froward chief, 

A freebooter, his mortal foe. 

But oh, that maiden's form of grace. 
And eye of love, to him were dear ! 

The smile that dimpled on her face 
Was deadlier than the border speav. 



THE QUEfijq's WAKE. 109 

That form was not the poplar's stem, 
That smile the dawning's purple line ; 

Nor was that eye the dazzling gem 
That glows adown the Indian mine. 

But would you praise the poplar pale, 

Or morn in wreath of roses drest ; 
The fairest flower that woos the vale, 

Or down that clothes the solan's breast ? 

A thousand times beyond, above, 

What rapt enthusiast ever saw ; 
Compare them to that mould of love, 

Young Mary Scott of Tushilaw ! 

The war-flame glows on Ettrick-pen, 
Bounds forth the foray swift as wind ; 

And Tushilaw and all his men 

Have left their homes afar behind. 

Oh, lady, lady, learn thy creed. 

And mark the watch-dog's boist'rous din ! 
The abbot comes with book and bead, 

Oh, haste and let the father in ! 

And, lady, mark his locks so grey, 
His beard so long, and colour wan ; 

Oh, he has mourn'd for many a day. 
And sorrow'd o'er the sins of man ! 

And yet so stately is his mien. 

His step so firm, and breast so bold ; 

His brawny leg and form, I weeu, 
Are wond'rous for a man so old. 

Short was his greeting, short and low, 
His blessing short as prayer could be ; 

But oft he sigh'd, and boded woe. 
And spoke of sin and misery. 

To shrift, to shrift, now ladies all. 

Your prayers and Ave-]\Iarias learn ; 

Haste, trembling, to the vesper hall, 
For, ah ! the priest is dark and stern. 



110 THE queen's wake: 

Short was the task of lady old — 
Short as confession well could be ; 

The abbot's orisons were cold, 
His absolutions frank and free. 

Go, Mary Scott, thy spirit meek 
Lay open to the searcher's eye ; 

And let the tear bedew thy cheek, 
Thy sins are of a crimson dye. 

For many a lover thou hast slain, 
And many yet lie sick for thee — 

Young Gilmanscleuch, and Deloraine, 
And Pringle, Lord of Torwoodlee. 

Tell every wish thy bosom near, 
No other sin, dear maid, hast thou ; 

And well the abbot loves to hear 
Thy plights of love and simple vow, 

" Why stays my Mary Scott so long ? 

What guilt can youth and beauty wail ? 
Of fervent thought and passion strong, 

Heavens ! what a sickening tedious tale V* 

Oh, lady, cease ; the maiden's mind, 

Though pure as morning's cloudless beam, 

A crime in every wish can find. 

In noontide glance and midnight dream. 

To woman's heart, when fair and free, 
Her sins seem great and manifold ; 

When sunk in guilt and misery, 
No crime can then her soul behold. 

'Tis sweet to see the opening flower 
Spread its fair bosom to the sun ; 

'Tis sweet to hear, in vernal bower. 
The thrush's earliest hymn begun. 

But sweeter far the prayer that wrings 
The tear from maiden's beaming eye ; 

And sweeter far the hymn she sings 
In grateful holy ecstacy. 



THE queen's wake. Ill 

The mass was said, but cold and dry 
That mass to heaven the father sent ; 

With book, and bead, and rosary, 
The abbot to his chamber went. 

The watch-dog rests with folded eye 

Beneath the portal's grey festoon ; 
The wilder'd Ettrick wanders by, 

Loud murmuring to the careless moon. 

The warder lists, with hope and dread. 

Far distant shout of fray begun ; 
The cricket tunes his tiny reed. 

And harps behind the embers dun. 

Why does the warder bend his head, 
And silent stand the casement near ? 

The cricket stops his little reed. 
The sound of gentle step to hear. 

Oh, many a wight from Border brake 
Has reaved the drowsy warden round ; 

And many a daughter lain awake. 

When parents trow'd them sleeping sound. 

The abbot's bed is well down spread, 

The abbot's bed is soft and fair ; 
The abbot's bed is cold as lead — 

For why ? — the abbot is not there. 

Was that the blast of bugle borne 

Far on the night wind, wavering shrill ? 

'Tis nothing but the shepherd's horn 
That keeps the watch on Cacra hill. 

What means the warder's answering note ? 

The moon is west, 'tis near the day ; 
I thought I heard the warriors shout, 

'Tis time the abbot were away. 

The bittern mounts the morning air. 

And rings the sky with quavering croon ; 

The watch-dog sallies from his lair. 
And bays the wind and setting moon. 



112 THE queen's wake. 

'Tis not the breeze, ror bittern's wail, 
Has roused the guarder from his den ; 

Along the bank, in belt and mail, 
Comes Tushilaw and all his men. 

The abbot, from his casement, saw 
The forest chieftain's proud array ; 

He heard the voice of Tushilaw — 
The abbot's heart grew cold as clay. 

" Haste, maidens, call my lady fair. 
That room may for my warriors be ; 

And bid my daughter come and share 
The cup of joy with them and me. 

Say we have fought and won the fray, 

Have lower'd our haughty foeman's pride ; 

And we have driven the richest prey 
That ever low'd by Ettrick side." 

To hear a tale of vanquish'd foes 

His lady came right cheerfully ; 
And Mary Scott, like morning rose, 

Stood blushing at her father's knee. 

Fast flow'd the warrior's ruthless tale. 
And aye the red cup pass'd between ; 

But Mary Scott grew lily pale, 

And trembled like the aspen green. 

" Now, lady, give me welcome cheer, 
Queen of the Border thou shalt be ; 

For I have brought thee gold and gear. 
And humbled haughty Torwoodlee. 

I beat his yeomen in the glen, 
1 loosed his horses from the stall ; 

I slew the bloodhound in his den. 

And sought the chief through tower and hall. 

'Tis said in hamlet mean and dark 
Nightly he lies with leman dear ; 

Oh, I would give ten thousand mark 
To see his head upon my spear ! 



THE queen's WAKE. 113 

Go, maidens, every mat be spread 
On heather haum or roe-grass heap, 

And make for me the scarlet bed, 
For I have need of rest and sleep." 

" Nay, my good lord, make other choice, 

In that you cannot rest to day ; 
For there in peaceful slumber lies 

A holy abbot, old and grey." 

The chieftain's cheek to crimson grew, 
Dropt from his hand the rosy wine — 

" An abbot ! curse the canting crew ! 
An abbot sleep in couch of mine ! 

Now, lady, as my soul shall thrive, 

I'd rather trust my child and thee 
With my two greatest foes alive — 

The king of Scots and Torwoodlee. 

The lazy horde of Melrose vale 

Has brought my life, my all to stake : 

Oh, lady ! I have heard a tale, 

The thought o't makes my heart to ache I 

Go, warriors, hale the villain forth, 

Bring not his loathful form to me ; 
The gate stands open to the north, 

The rope hangs o'er the gallows tree. 

There shall the burning breeze of noon 
Rock the old sensual sluggard blind ; 

There let him swing, till sun and moon 
Have three times left the world behind." 

Oh, abbot, abbot, say thy prayers. 

With orisons load every breath ; 
The forest trooper's on the stairs. 

To drag thee to a shameful death. 

Oh, abbot, abbot, quit thy bed, 

111 armed art thou to meet the strife ; 

Haste, don thy beard, and quoif thy head, 
And guard the door for death or life. 



114 oiHE queen's wake. 

TLiy arm is firm, thy lieart is stout, 
Yet thou canst neither fight nor flee ; 

But beauty stands thy guard without — 
Yes, beauty weeps and pleads for thee. 

Proud, ruthless man, by vengeance driven, 
Regardless hears a brother plead ; 

Regardless sees the brand of heaven 
Red quivering o'er his guilty head : 

But once let woman's soothing tongue 
Implore his help or clemency, 

Around him let her arms be flung. 
Or at his feet her bended knee ; 

The world's a shadow ! vengeance sleeps ! 

The child of reason stands reveal'd — 
When beauty pleads, when woman weeps, 

He is not man who scorns to yield. 

Stern Tushilaw is gone to sleep, 
Laughing at woman's dread of sin ; 

But first he bade his warriors keep 
All robbers out and abbots in. 

The abbot, from his casement high, 
Look'd out to see the peep of day ; 

The scene that met the abbot's eye 
Fill'd him with wonder and dismay. 

'Twas not the dews of dawning mild, 
The mountain's hues of silver grey. 

Nor yet the Ettrick's windings wild. 
By belted holm and bosky brae ; 

Nor moorland Rankleburn, that raved 
By covert, clough, and greenwood shaw ; 

Nor dappled flag of day, that waved 
In streamers pale from Gilmans-law ; 

But many a doubted ox there lay 

At rest upon the castle lea ; 
And there he saw his gallant grey, 

And all the steeds of Torwoodlce. 



THE queen's wake. 115 

" Beslirew the wont !" the abbot said, 

" The charge runs high for lodging here ; 

The guard is deep, the path waylaid, 
My homilies shall cost me dear. 

Come well, come woe, with dauntless core 

I'll kneel, and con my breviary ; 
If Tushilaw is versed in lore, 

'Twill be an awkward game with me.'* 

Now Tushilaw he waked and slept. 

And dream'd and thought till noontide hour ; 
But aye this query upmost kept, 

" What seeks the abbot in my tower V 

Stern Tushilaw came down the stair 

With doubtful and indignant eye, 
And found the holy man at prayer. 

With bookj and crosSj and rosary. 

" To book, to book, thou reaver red, 

Of absolution thou hast need ; 
The sword of Heaven hangs o'er thy head, 

Death is thy doom, and hell thy meed 1" 

" I'll take my chance, thou priest of sin. 

Thy absolutions I disdain ; 
But I will noose thy bearded chin, 

If thus thou talkest to me again. 

Declare thy business and thy name, 
Or short the route to thee is given 1" 

" The abbot I of Coldinghame, 

My errand is the cause of heaven." 

" That shalt thou prove ere we two part ; 

Some robber thou, or royal spy : 
But, villain, I will search thy heart, 

And chain thee in the deep to lie ! 

Hence with thy rubbish, best and ban, 
Whinyards to keep the weak in awe ; 

The scorn of Heaven, the shame of man — 
No books nor beads for Tushilaw I" 



116 THE queen's wake. 

" Oh ! lost to mercy, faith, and love ! 

Thy bolts and chains are nought to me y 
I'll call an angel from above 

That soon will set the pris'ner free." 

Bold Tushilaw, o'er strone and steep, 
Pursues the roe and dusky deer ; 

The abbot lies in dungeon deep, 

The maidens wail, the matrons fear. 

The sweetest flower on Ettrick shaw 
Bends its fair form o'er grated keep ; 

Young Mary Scott of Tushilaw 

Sleeps but to sigh, and wakes to weep. 

Bold Tushilaw, with horn and hound. 
Pursues the deer o'er holt and lea ; 

And rides and rules the Border round, 
From Philiphaugh to Gilnockye. 

His page rode down by Melrose fair, 
His page rode down by Coldinghame ; 

But not a priest was missing there. 
Nor abbot, friar, or monk of name. 

The evening came : it w^as the last 
The abbot in this world should see ; 

The bonds are firm, the bolts are fast, 
No angel comes to set him free. 

Yes, at the stillest hour of night 
Softly unfolds the iron door ; 

Beam'd through the gloom unwonted light, 
That light a beauteous angel bore. 

Fair was the form that o'er him hung, 
And fair the hands that set him free ; 

The trembling whispers of her tongue 
Softer than seraph's melody. 

The abbot's soul was all on flame. 

Wild transport through his bosom ran ; 

For never angel's airy frame 

Was half so sweet to mortal man. 



THE queen's wake. 117 

Why walks young Mary Scott so late, 

In veil and cloak of cramasye ? 
The porter opens wide the gate, 

His bonnet moves, and bends his knee. 

Long may the wondering porter wait 

Before the lady form return — 
" Speed, abbot, speed, nor halt nor batp, 

Nor look thou back to Rankleburn." 

The day arrives, the ladies plead 

In vain for yon mysterious wight ; 
For Tushilaw his doom decreed. 

Were he an abbot, lord, or knight. 

The chieftain call'd his warriors stout, 
And ranged them round the gallows tree, 

Then bade them bring the abbot out, 
The fate of fraud that all might see. 

The men return, of sense bereft, 

Falter their tongues, their eyeballs glare ; 

The door was lock'd, the fetters left — 
All close — the abbot was not there ! 

The wondering warriors bow to God, 

And matins to the Virgin hum ; 
But Tushilaw he gloom'd and strode. 

And walk'd into the castle dumb. 

But to the Virgin's sacred name 

The vow was paid in many a cell ; 
And many a rich oblation came 

For that amazing miracle. 

Lord Pringle walk'd his glens alone. 

Nor flock nor lowing herd he saw ; 
But even the king upon the throne 

Quaked at the name of Tushilaw. 

Lord Pringle's heart was all on flame, 
Nor peace nor joy his bosom knew ; 

'Twas for the kindest, sweetest dame, 
That ever brush'd the forest dew. 



118 THE queen's WAKE. 

Grone is one month, with smile and sigh, 
With dream by night and wish by day ; 

A second came, with moisten'd eye ; 
Another came and pass'd away. 

Why is the flower of yonder pile 
Bending its stem to court decay, 

And Mary Scott's benignant smile 
Like sunbeam in a winter day ? 

Sometimes her colour's like the rose, 
Sometimes 'tis like the lily pale ; 

The flower that in the forest grows 
Is fallen before the summer gale. 

A mother's fostering breast is warm, 
And dark her doubts of love I ween ; 

For why — she felt its early harm — 
A mother's eye is sharp and keen ! 

Tis done ! the woman stands reveal'd ! 

Stern Tushilaw is waked to see ; 
The bearded priest, so well conceal'd, 

Was Pringle, Lord of Torwoodlee ! 

Oh, never was the thunder's jar, 
The red tornado's wasting wing, 

Nor all the elemental war, 
Like fury of the border king. 

He laugh'd aloud — his falchion eyed — 
A laugh of burning vengeance borne ! — 

" Does thus the coward trow," he cried, 
" To hold his conqueror's power to scorn ! 

Thinks Tushilaw of maids or wives, 
Or such a thing as Torwoodlee ? 

Had Mary Scott a thousand lives. 
These lives were all too few for me ! 

Ere midnight, in the secret cave. 

This sword shall pierce her bosom's core, 

Though I go childless to my grave, 
And rue the deed for evermore ! 



THE queen's wake. 119 

Oh, had I lulPd the imp to rest 

When first she lisp'd her name to me. 

Or pierced her little guileless breast 
When smiling on her nurse's knee !'* 

" Just is your vengeance, my good lord, 
'Tis just and right our daughter die ; 

Far sharper than a foeman's sword 
Is family shame and injury. 

But trust the ruthless deed to me ; 

I have a phial, potent, good ; 
Unmeet that all the Scotts should see 

A daughter's corse embalm'd in blood ! 

Unmeet her gallant kinsmen know 
The guilt of one so fair and young ; 

No cup should to her mem'ry flow, 
No requiem o'er her grave be sung. 

My potent draught has erst proved true 
Beneath my own and husband's eye ; 

Trust me, ere falls the morning dew, 
In dreamless sleep shall Mary lie !" 

" Even go thy way, thy words are true, 

I knew thy dauntless soul before ; 
But list — if thou deceivest me too. 

Thou hast a head — I say no more." 

Stern Tushilaw strode o'er the lea. 
And, wondering, by the twilight, saw 

A crystal tear drop from his eye. 
The first e'er shed by Tushilaw ! 

Oh, grievous are the bonds of steel. 
And blasted hope 'tis hard to prove ; 

More grievous far it is to feel 
Ingratitude from those we love. 

" What brings my lady mother here, 
Pale as the morning shower, and cold ? 

In her dark eye why stands the tear l 
Why in her hand a cup of gold 2" 



120 THE queen's WAKU. 

" My Mary, tliou art ill at rest, 
Fervid and feverish is thy blood ; 

Still yearns o'er thee thy mother's breast, 
Take this, my child, 'tis for thy good 1" 

Oh, sad, sad was young Mary's plight ! 

She took the cup — no word she spake : 
She had even wish'd that very night 

To sleep, and never more to wake. 

She took the cup — she drank it dry, 
Then pillow'd soft her beauteous head. 

And calmly watch'd her mother's eye ; 
But, oh ! that eye was hard to read ! 

Her moisten'd eyes, so mild and meek, 
Soon sunk their auburn fringe beneath ; 

The ringlets on her damask cheek 

Heaved gentler with her stealing breath ! 

She turn'd her face unto the wall, 
Her colour changed to pallid clay ; 

Long ere the dews began to fall, 
The flower of Ettrick lifeless lay ! 

Why underneath her winding-sheet 
Does broider'd silk her form enfold ? 

Why is cold Mary's buskin'd feet 

All laced with belts and bands of gold I 

" What boots to me these robes so gay ? 

To wear them now no child have I ! 
They should have graced her bridal day, 

Now they must in the churchyard lie ! 

I thought to see my daughter ride. 
In golden gear and cramasye. 

To Mary's fane — the loveliest bride 
Ere to the Virgin bent to the knee. 

Now I may by her funeral wain 
Ride silent o'er the mountain grey : 

Her revel hall the gloomy fane. 
Her bridal bed the cheerless clay I'* 



THE queen's wake. 121 

Why that rich snood with plume and lace 
Round Mary's lifeless temples drawn \ 

Why is the napkin o'er her face 
A fragment of the lily lawn 1 

" My Mary has another home ; 

And far, far though her journey be, 
When she to paradise shall come, 

Then will my child remember me !" 

Oh, many a flower was round her spread, 
And many a pearl and diamond bright, 

And many a window round her head 
Shed on her form a bootless light ! 

Lord Pringle sat on Maygill brae. 
Pondering on war and vengeance meet ; 

The Cadan toil'd in narrow way. 

The Tweed roU'd far beneath his feet. 

Not Tweed, by gulf and whirlpool mazed. 
Through dark wood-glen, by him was seen ; 

For still his thought-set eye was raised 
To Ettrick mountains, wild and green. 

Sullen he sat, unstaid, unblest. 

He thought of battle, broil, and blood ; 

He never cross'd, he never wist 
Till by his side a palmer stood. 

" Haste, my good lord, this letter read, 

111 bodes it listless thus to be ; 
Upon a die I've set my head. 

And brought this letter far to thee." 

Lord Pringle look'd the letter on. 

His face grew pale as winter sky ; 
But, ere the half of it was done. 

The tear of joy stood in his eye, 

A purse he to the palmer threw, 

^lounted the cleft of aged tree, 
Three times aloud his bugle blew, 

And hasted home to Torwoodlee. 



122 THE queen's wake. 

'Twas scarcely past the hour of noon 
When first the foray whoop began ; 

And, in the wan light of the moon, 
Through March and Teviotdale it ran. 

Far to the south it spread away, 
Startled the hind by fold and tree ; 

And aye the watchword of the fray 

Was, " Ride for Ker and Torwoodlee !" 

When next the day began to fade. 

The warriors round their chieftains range ; 

And many a solemn vow they made. 
And many an oath of fell revenge. 

The Pringles' plumes indignant dance — 

It was a gallant sight to see ; 
And many a Ker, with sword and lance. 

Stood rank and file on Torwoodlee. 

• As they fared up yon craggy glen. 

Where Tweed sweeps round the Thorny-hill, 
Old Gideon Murray and his men 

The foray join'd with right good will. 

They hasted up by Ploro side. 

And north above Mount-Benger turn, 

And loathly forced with them to ride 
Black Douglas of the Craigy-burn. 

When they came nigh Saint Mary's lake, 
The day-sky glimmer'd on the dew ; 

They hid their horses in the brake, 

And lurk'd in heath and braken clough. 

The lake one purple valley lay, 

Where tints of glowing light were seen ; 

The ganza waved his cuneal way. 
With yellow oar and quoif of green. 

The dark cock bay'd above the coomb. 
Throned 'mid the wavy fringe of gold, 

Un wreathed from dawning's fairy loom, 
In many a soft vermilion fold. 



THE queen's wake. 123 

The tiny skiffs of silver mist 

Linger'd along the slumbering vale ; 

Bell'd the grey stag with fervid breast 
High on the moors of Meggat-dale. 

There, hid in clough and hollow den. 

Gazing around the still sublime, 
There lay Lord Pringle and his men 

On beds of heath and moorland thyme. 

That morning found rough Tushilaw 

In all the father's guise appear ; 
An end of all his hopes he saw 

Shrouded in Mary's gilded bier. 

No eye could trace without concern 

The suffering warrior's troubled look — 

The throbs that heaved his bosom stern, 
No ear could bear, no heart could brook. 

" Woe be to thee, thou wicked dame ! 

My Mary's prayers and accents mild 
Might well have render'd vengeance lame— 

This hand could ne'er have slain my child 1 

But thou, in frenzied fatal hour. 

Reft the sweet life thou gavest away, 

And crush'd to earth the fairest flower 
That ever breathed the breeze of day. 

My all is lost, my hope is fled. 

The sword shall ne'er be drawn for me ; 
Unblest, unhonour'd, my grey head — 

My child — would I had died for thee !'' 

The bell tolls o'er a new-made grave ; 

The lengthen'd funeral train is seen 
Stemming the Yarrow's silver wave. 

And dark'ning Dryhope holms so green. 

When nigh the virgin's fane they drew, 

Just by the verge of holy ground, 
The Kers and Pringles left the clough, 

And hemm'd the wond'ring Scotts around. 



124 THE queen's wake. 

Vassal and peasant, seized with dread, 
Sped off, and look'd not once behind ; 

And all who came for wine and bread 
Fled hke the chaff before the wind. 

But all the Scotts together flew — 
For every Scott of name was there — 

In sullen mood their weapons drew, 
And back to back for fight prepare. 

Rough was the onset — boast, nor threat, 
Nor word, was heard from friend or foe ; 

At once began the work of fate, 

With perilous thrust and deadly blow. 

Oh, but the Harden lads were true, 
And bore them bravely in the broil ! 

The doughty laird of Wild Buccleuch 
Raged like a lion in the toil. 

Young Raeburn tilted gallantly ; 

But Ralph of Gilmanscleuch was slain, 
Philip and Hugh of Baillilee, 

And William, Laird of Deloraine. 

But Francis, Lord of Thirlestane, 

To all the gallant name a soil. 
While blood of kinsmen fell like rain, 

Crept underneath a braken coil. 

Old Tushilaw, with sword in hand. 
And heart to fiercest woes a prey, 

Seem'd courting every foeman's brand. 
And fought in hottest of the fray. 

In vain the gallant kinsmen stood 
Wedged in a firm and bristled ring ; 

Their funeral weeds are bathed in blood, 
No corslets round their bosoms cling. 

Against the lance and helmed file 

Their courage, might, and skill were vain ; 

Short was the conflict, short the while 
Ere all the Scotts were bound or slain. 



THE queen's wake. 125 

When first the hostile band upsprung, 

The body in the church was laid, 
Where vows were made, and requiems sung, 

By matron, monk, and weeping maid. 

Lord Pringle came — before his eye 

The monks and maidens kneel'd in fear ; 

But Lady Tushilaw stood by, 

And pointed to her Mary's bier ! 

" Thou lord of guile and malice keen, 
What boots this doleful work to thee ? 

Could Scotland such a pair have seen 
As Mary Scott and Torwoodlee ?" 

Lord Pringle came, no word he spake, 
Nor own'd the pangs his bosom knew ; 

But his full heart was like to break 
In every throb his bosom drew. 

" Oh, I had ween'd, with fondest heart — 
Woe to the guileful friend who lied ! — 

This day should join us ne'er to part, 
This day that I should win my bride ! 

But I will see that face so meek. 
Cold, pale, and lifeless though it be ; 

And I will kiss that comely cheek. 
Once sweeter than the rose to me." 

With trembling hand he raised the lid. 
Sweet was the perfume round that flew ; 

For there were strew'd the roses red. 
And every flower the forest knew. 

He drew the fair lawn from her face, 

'Twas deck'd with many a costly wreath ; 

And still it wore a soothing grace 
Even in the chill abodes of death. 

And aye he press'd the cheek so white, 
And aye he kiss'd the lips beloved. 

Till pitying maidens wept outright. 

And even the frigid monks were moved. 



126 THE queen's WAKE. 

Why starts Lord Pringle to his knee ? 

Why bend his eyes with watchful strain ? 
The maidens shriek his mien to see. 

The startled priests inquire in vain ! 

Was that a sob — an earthly sigh, 

That heaved the flowers so lightly shed ? 

'Twas but the wind that wander 'd by, 
And kiss'd the bosom of the dead ! 

Are these the glowing tints of life 

•O'er Mary's cheek that come and fly ? 
Ah, no ! the red flowers round are rife, 
The rosebud flings its soften'd dye. 

Why grows the gazer's sight so dim? 

Stay, dear illusion, still beguile ! 
Thou art worth crowns and worlds to him — • 

Last, dear illusion, last a while ! 

Short was thy sway, frenzied and short, 
For ever fell the veil on thee ; 

Thy startling form of fears the sport, 
Yanish'd in sweet reality ! 

'Tis past ! and darkly stands reveal'd 
A mother^s cares and purpose deep.: 

That kiss, the last adieu that seal'd. 

Waked Mary from her death-like sleep ! 

Slowly she raised her form of grace, 
Her eyes no ray conceptive flung ; 

And oh, her mild, her languid face. 
Was like a flower too early sprung ! 

^^ Oh, I lie sick and weary here. 

My heart is bound in moveless chain ; 

Another cup, my mother dear, 

I cannot sleep, though I would fain !" 

She drank the wine with calm delay. 
She drank the wine with pause and sigh : 

Slowly, as wakes the dawning day, 

Dawn'd long lost thought in Mary's eye. 



THE queen's wake. 127 

She look'd at pall, she look'd at bier, 

At altar, shrine, and rosary ; 
She saw her lady mother near, 

And at her side brave Torvvoodlee ! 

'Twas all a dream, nor boded good — 

A phantom of the fever'd brain ! 
She laid her down in moaning mood, 

To soothe her woes in sleep again. 

Needs not to paint that joyful hour, 
The nuptial vow, the bridal glee — 

How Mary Scott, the forest flower. 
Was borne a bride to Torwoodlee. 

Needs not to say how warriors pray'd 
When Mary glided from the dome ; 

They thought the Virgin's holy shade 
In likeness of the dead had come. 

Diamond and ruby ray'd her waist, 
And twinkled round her brow so fair ; 

She wore more gold upon her breast 

Than would have bought the hills of Yair. 

A foot so light, a form so meet. 

Ne'er trod Saint ]\Iary's lonely lea ; 

A bride so gay, a face so sv/eet. 
The Yarrow braes shall never see. 

Old Tushilaw deign'd not to smile. 

No grateful word his tongue could say ; 

He took one kiss, bless'd her the while, 
Wiped his dark eye, and turn'd away. 

The Scotts were freed, and peace restored ; 

Each Scott, each Ker, each Pringle swore— 
Swore by his name and by his sword — 

To be firm friends for evermore. 

Lord Pringle's hills were stock'd anew, 
Drove after drove came nightly free ; 

But many a border baron knew 

Whence came the dower to Torwoodlee. 



123 THE queen's wake. 

Scarce had the closing measure rung, 
When from the ring the minstrel sprung, 
And his gilt harp, of flowery frame, 
Left ready for the next that came. 
Loud were the plaudits — all the fair 
Their eyes turn'd to the royal chair : 
They look'd again — no bard was there ! 
But whisper, smile, and question, ran 
Around the ring anent the man ; 
While all the nobles of the south 
Lauded the generous stranger youth. 

The next was bred on southern shore. 
Beneath the mists of Lammermore ; 
And long, by Nith and crystal Tweed, 
Had taught the Border youth to read. 
The strains of Greece, the bard of Troy, 
Were all his theme and all his joy. 

Well toned his voice of wars to sing ; 
ITis hair was dark as raven's wing ; 
His eye an intellectual lance, 
No heart could bear its searching glance : 
But every bard to him was dear — 
His heart was kind, his soul sincere. 

When first of royal wake he heard, 
Forthwith it chain' d his sole regard : 
It was his thought, his hourly theme. 
His morning prayer, his midnight dream. 
Knights, dames, and squires of each degree. 
He deem'd as fond of songs as he, 
And talk'd of them continually. 
But when he heard the Highland strain. 
Scarce could his breast his soul contain ; 
'Twas all unequall'd, and would make 
Immortal bards, immortal wake ! 
About Dun Edin streets he ran. 
Each knight he met, each maid, each man, 
In field, in alley, tower, or hall. 
The wake was first, the wake was all. 



THE QUEEJ^'S WAKE. 129 

Alike to him the south or north, 
So high he held the minstrel worth — 
So high his ardent mind was wrought, 
Once of himself he scarcely thought. 
Dear to his heart the strain sublime. 
The strain admired in ancient time ; 
Andj of his minstrel honours proud, 
He strung his harp too high, too loud. 



KING EDWARD'S DREAM. 
THE FIFTEENTH BARD's SONG. 

The heath-cock had whirr'd at the break of the morn. 

The moon of her tassels of silver was shorn, 

When hoary King Edward lay tossing in ire. 

His blood in a ferment, his bosom on fire ; 

His battle files, stretch'd o'er the valley, were still 

As Eden's pine forests that darken'd the hill. 

He slept — but his visions were loathly and grim ; 
How quiver'd his lip ! and how quaked every limb ! 
His dull moving eye show'd how troubled his rest, 
And deep were the throbs of his labouring breast. 

He saw the Scot's banner red streaming on high ; 
The fierce Scottish warriors determined and nigh ; 
Their columns of steel, and', bright gleaming before, 
The lance, the broad target, and Highland claymore. 
And, lo ! at their head, in stern glory, appear 'd 
That hero of heroes so hated and fear'd ; 
'Twas the exile of Rachrin that led the array. 
And Wallace's spirit was pointing the way : 
His eye was a torch, beaming ruin and wrath. 
And graved on his helmet was — Vengeance or Death! 

In far Ethiopia's desert domain, 
Where whirlwinds new mountains up-pile on the plain, 
Their crested brown billows, fierce curling on high, 
O'ershadow the sun, and are toss'd to the sky ; 



130 THE QUEEI^'S WAKE. 

But, meeting eacli other, they burst and recoil, _ 
Mix, thunder, and sink, with a reeling turmoil : 
As dreadful the onset that Edward beheld, 
As fast his brave legions were heap'd on the field. 

The plaided blue Highlander, swift as the wind, 
Spread terror before him and ruin behind. 
Thick clouds of blood- vapour brood over the slain, 
And Pembroke and Howard are stretch'd on the plain. 

The chieftain he hated, all cover'd with blood, 
Still nearer and nearer approach'd where he stood ; 
He could not retreat, and no succour was near — 
" Die, scorpion !" he cried, and pursued his career. 
The king felt the iron retreat from the wound, 
No hand to uphold him, he sunk on the ground : 
His spirit escaped on the wings of the wind, 
Left terror, confusion, and carnage behind. 
Till on the green Pentland he thought he sat lone. 
And ponder'd on troubles and times that were gone. 

He look'd over meadow, broad river, and down. 
From OchiFs fair mountains to Lammermore brown ; 
He still found his heart and desires were the same — 
He wish'd to. leave Scotland nor sceptre nor name. 

He thought, as he lay on the green mountain thyme 
A spirit approach'd him in manner sublime. 
At first she appear'd like a streamer of light. 
But still as she near'd she was form'd to his sight. 
Her robe was the blue silken veil of the sky, 
The drop of the amethyst deepen'd its dye ; 
Her crown was a helmet, emblazon'd with pearl ; 
Her mantle the sunbeam, her bracelets the beryl ; 
Her hands and her feet like the bright burning levin ; 
Her face was the face of an angel from heaven : 
Around her the winds and the echoes grew still, 
And rainbows were form'd in the cloud of the hill. 

Like music that floats o'er tlie soft heaving deep, 
When twihght has lulPd all the breezes asleep. 
The wild fairy airs in our forests that rung. 
Or hymn of the sky by a seraph when sung ; 



THE queen's wake. 131 

So sweet were the tones on his fancy that broke, 
When the guardian of Scotland's proud mountains thus 
spoke : — 

" What boots, mighty Edward, thy victories won ? 
'Tis over — thy sand of existence is run ; 
Thy laurels are faded, dispersed in the blast ; 
Thy soul from the bar of Omnipotence cast, 
To wander bewilder'd o'er mountain and plain, 
O'er lands thou hast steep'd with the blood of the slain. 

I heard of thy guerdon, I heard it on high : 
Thou'rt doom'd on those mountains to linger and lie, 
The mark of the tempest, the sport of the wind — 
The tempest of conscience, the storm of the mind — 
Till people thou'st hated, and sworn to subdue, 
Triumphant from bondage shall burst on thy view, 
Their sceptre and liberty bravely regain. 
And climb to renown over mountains of slain. 

I thought (and I join'd my endeavours to thine) 
The time was arrived when the two should combine ; 
For 'tis known that they will 'mong the hosts of the sky, 
And we thought that blest era of concord was nigh. 
But ages unborn yet shall flit on the wing, 
And Scotland to England ere then give a king — 
A father to monarchs, whose flourishing sway 
The ocean and ends of the earth shall obey. 

See yon little hamlet o'ershadow'd with smoke, 
See yon hoary battlement throned on the rock. 
Even there shall a city in splendour break forth. 
The haughty Dun Edin, the queen of the north ; 
There learning shall flourish and liberty smile, 
The awe of the world and the pride of the isle ! 

But thy lonely spirit shall roam in dismay, 
And weep o'er thy labour so soon to decay. 
In yon western plain, where thy power overthrew 
The bulwarks of Caledon, valiant and few — 
Where beam'd the red falchion of ravage and wrath ; 
Where tyranny, horsed on the dragons of death, 



132 THE queen's wake. 

Rode mtUess througli blood of the Lonour'd and just ; 
When Graeme and brave Stuart lay bleeding hi dust — 
The wailings of liberty pierced the sky ; 
Th' Everlasting, in pity, averted his eye ! 

Even there shall the flower of thy nations combined, 
Proud England, green Erin, and Normandy join'd, 
Exulting in numbers and dreadful array, 
Led on by Carnarvon, to Scotland away. 
As thick as the snow-flakes that pour from the pole, 
Or silver-maned waves on the ocean that roll : 
A handful of heroes, all desperate driven, 
Impell'd by the might and the vengeance of heaven ; 
By them shall his legions be all overborne. 
And melt from the field like the mist of the morn. 
The thistle shall rear her rough front to the sky. 
And the rose and the shamrock at Carron shall die. 

How couldst thou imagine those spirits of flame 
Would stoop to oppression, to slavery, and shame ? 
Ah ! never ; the lion may couch to thy sway, 
The mighty leviathan bend and obey ; 
But the Scots, round their king and broad banner un- 

furl'd. 
Their mountains will keep against thee and the world." 

King Edward awoke with a groan and a start. 
The vision was vanish'd, but not from his heart ! 
His courage was high, but his vigour was gone ; 
He cursed the Scotch nation, and bade them lead on. 
His legions moved on like a cloud of the west ; 
But fierce was the fever that boil'd in his breast. 
On sand of the Solway they rested his bed. 
Where the soul of the king and the warrior fled ! 
He heard not the sound of the evening curfew ; 
But the whisper that died on his tongue, was — " sub- 
due r 

The bard had sung so bold and high. 
While patriot fire flash' d from his eye, 
That ere King Edward won to rest. 
Or sheet was spread above his breast, 



THE queen's wake. 133 

The harp-strings jarr'd in wild mistone, 
The minstrel throbb'd, his voice was gone. 
Upon his harp he lean'd his head, 
And softly from the ring was led. 

The next was from a western vale, 
Where Nith winds slowly down the dale ; 
Where play the waves o'er golden grain, 
Like mimic billows of the main. 
Of the old elm his harp was made, 
That bent o'er Cluden's loneliest shade : 
No gilded sculpture round her flamed. 
For his own hand that harp had framed, 
In stolen hours, when labour done. 
He stray'd to view the parting sun. 
Oh, when the toy, to him so fair, 
Began to form beneath his care. 
How danced his youthful heart with joy ! 
How constant grew the dear employ I 
The sun would chamber in the Ken, 
The red star rise o'er Locherben, 
The solemn moon, in sickly hue. 
Waked from her eastern couch of dew, 
Would half-way gain the vault on high, 
Bathe in the Nith, slow stealing by, 
And still the bard his task would ply. 

When his first notes, from covert grey, 
Arrested maiden on her way ; 
When ceased the reaper's evening tale. 
And paused the shepherd of the dale — 
Bootless all higher worldly bliss. 
To crown our minstrel's happiness ! 
What all the joys by fortune given, 
To cloyless song, the gift of heaven ? 

That harp could make the matron stare, 
Bristle the peasant's hoary hair. 
Make patriot-breasts with ardour glow, 
And warrior pant to meet the foe ; 
And long by Nith the maidens young 
Shall chant the strains their minstrel sung ; 



134 THE queen's wake. 

At ewe-biiglit, or at evening fold, 
When resting on the daisied wold, 
Combing their locks of waving gold, 
Oft the fair group, enrapt, shall name 
Their lost, their darling Cunninghame : 
His was a song beloved in youth — 
A tale of weir— a tale of truth. 



DUMLANRIG. 

' THE SIXTEENTH BARD's SONG. 

Who's he stands at Dumlanrig's gate 2 
Who raps so loud, and raps so late ? 
Nor warder's threat, nor porter's growl, 
Question, nor watch-dog's angry howl, 
He once regards ; but rap and call, 
Thundering alternate, shake the wall. 
Tl.e captive, stretch'd in dungeon deep, 
Waked from his painful vision'd sleep ; 
His meagre form from pavement raised. 
And listen'd to the sounds amazed : 
Both bayle and keep rang with the din, 
And Douglas heard the noise within. 

" Ho ! rise, Dumlanrig ! all's at stake ! 
Ho ! rise, Dumlanrig ! Douglas, wake ! 
Blow, warder — blow thy warning shrill, 
Light up the beacon on the hill ; 
For round thee reaves thy ruthless foe — 
Arise, Dumlanrig ! Douglas, ho !" 

His fur-cloak round him Douglas threw, 
And to the crennel eager flew. 
" What news ? what news ? thou stalwart groom, 
Who thus, in midnight's deepest gloom, 
Bring'st to my gate the loud alarm 
Of foray wide and country harm ? 
What are thy dangers ? what thy fears 2 
Say out thy message, Douglas hears," 



THE QUEi;^-'s Y7AKE. 135 

" Haste, Douglas ! Douglas, arm with speed, 
And mount thy fleetest battle steed ; 
For Lennox, with the southern host, 
Whom thou hast balk'd and curb'd the most, 
Like locusts from the Solway blown. 
Are spread upon thy mountains brown ; 
Broke from their camp in search of prey, 
They drive thy flocks and herds away ; 
Roused by revenge and hunger keen, 
They've swept the hills of fair Dalveen ; 
Nor left thee bullock, goat, or steer. 
On all the holms of Durisdeer. 

One troop came to my father's hall ; 
They burnt our tower — they took our all. 
My dear, my only sister. May, 
By force the ruffians bore away ; 
Nor kid nor lamb bleats in the glen. 
Around all lonely Locherben I 

My twenty men, I have no moe, 
Eager to cross the roaming foe. 
Well arm'd with hauberk and broadsword. 
Keep ward at Cample's rugged ford ; 
Before they bear their prey across, 
Some Southrons shall their helmets lose, 
If not the heads those helmets shield — 
Oh, haste thee, Douglas to the field !" 
With that his horse around he drew. 
And down the path Hke lightning flew. 

" Arm," cried the Douglas, " one and all T' 
And vanish'd from the echoing wall. 
" Arm ! " was the word ; along it ran 
Through manor, bayle, and barbican ; 
And clank and clatter burst at once 
From every loop of hall and sconce. 
With whoop of groom, and warder's call, 
And prancing steeds, 'twas hurry all. 

At first, like thunder's distant tone, 
The rattling din came rolling on, 



136 THE queen's wake. 

Echo'd Dumlanrig woods around ; 
Louder and louder swell'd the sound, 
Till like the sheeted flame of wonder, 
That rends the shoals of heaven asunder. 

When first the word, " To arms ! " was given, 
Glow'd all the eastern porch of heaven ; 
A wreathy cloud of orient brown 
Had heralded the rising moon. 
Whose verge was hke a silver bow, 
Bending o'er Ganna's lofty brow ; 
And ere above the mountain blue 
Her wasted orb was roll'd in view, 
A thousand men, in armour sheen, 
Stood rank'd upon Dumlanrig green. 

The Nith they stemm'd in firm array ; 
For Cample-ford they bent their way. 
Than Douglas and his men that night. 
Never saw yeoman nobler sight ; 
Mounted on tall curvetting steed. 
He rode undaunted at their head ; 
His shadow on the water still, 
Like giant on a moving hill. 
The ghastly bull's-head scowl'd on high, 
Emblem of death to foeman's eye ; 
And bloody hearts on streamers pale 
Waved wildly in the midnight gale. 

Oh, haste thee, Douglas ! haste and ride ; 
Thy kinsmen's corpses stem the tide ! 
What red, what dauntless youth is he, 
Who stands in Cample to the knee ? 
Whose arm of steel, and weapon good. 
Still dyes the stream with southern blood, 
While round him fall his faithful men ?— 
'Tis Morison of Locherben. 

Oh, haste thee, Douglas, to the fray, 
Ere won be that important way ! 
The Southron's countless prey, within 
The dreadful coils of Crighup Linn, 



THE queen's wake. 137 

No passage from the moor can find — 
The wood below, the gulf behind ; 
One ford there is, and one alone. 
And in that ford stands Morison. 
Who passes there, or man or beast, 
Must make their passage o'er his breast, 
And over heaps of mangled dead. 
That dam red Cample from its bed. 
His sister's cries his soul alarm, 
And add new vigour to his arm. 
His twenty men are waned to ten, 
Oh, haste to dauntless Locherben ! 

The Southrons balk'd, impatient turn, 
And crowd once more the fatal bourn. 
All desperate grew the work of death. 
No yielding but with yielding breath ; 
Even still lay every death-struck man, 
For footing to the furious van. 
The little band was seized with dread. 
Behind their rampart of the dead : 
Power from their arms began to fly, 
And hope within their breasts to die, 
When loud they heard the cheering word 
Of — " Douglas ! Douglas !" cross the ford : 
Then turn'd the Southron swift as wind, 
For fierce the battle raged behind. 

Oh, stay, brave IMorison ! oh, stay ! 
Guard but that pass till break of day ; 
Thy flocks, thy sister to retrieve. 
That task to doughty Douglas leave : 
Let not thine ardour all betray — 
Thy might is spent— brave warrior, stay. 

Oh, for the lyre of heaven, that rung 
When Linden's lofty hymn was sung ! 
Or his, who from the height beheld 
The reeling strife of Flodden field. 
Then, far on wing of genius borne. 
Should ring the wonders of that morn ; 



138 THE queen's wake. 

Morn ! — ah ! Iiow many a warrior bold, 
That morn was never to behold i 
When rival rank to rank drew nigh, 
When eye was fix'd on foeman's eye, 
When lov/er'd was lance, and bent was bow, 
And falchion clench'd to strike the blow. 
No breath was heard, nor clank of mail^ 
Each face with rage grew deadly pale. 
Trembled the moon's reluctant ray ; 
The breeze of heaven sunk soft away. 

So furious was that onset's shock. 
Destruction's gates at once unlock ; 
'Twas like the earthquake's hollow groan, 
When towers and towns are overthrown ; 
'Twas like the river's midnight crush. 
When snows dissolve and torrents rush ; 
When fields of ice, in rude array, 
Obstruct its own resistless way ; 
'Twas like the whirlwind's rending sweep ; 
'Twas like the tempest of the deep. 
Where Corryvraken's surges driven. 
Meet, mount, and lash the breast of heaven. 

'Twas foot to foot, and brand to brand ; 
Oft hilt to hilt, and hand to hand ; 
Oft gallant foemen, woe to tell, 
Dead in each other's bosoms fell ! 
The horsemen met with might and main. 
Then reel'd, and wheel'd, and met again. 
A thousand spears on hauberks bang — 
A thousand swords on helmets clang. 
Where might was with the feebler blent. 
Still there the line of battle bent ; 
As oft recoil'd from flank assail. 
While blows fell thick as rattling hail. 
Nature stood mute that fateful hour, 
All save the ranks on Cample-moor, 
And mountain goats that left their den, 
And bleating fled to Garroch glen. 



THE queen's wake. 139 

Dumlaurig, aye in battle keen, 
The foremost in the broil was seen : 
Woe to the warrior dared withstand 
The progress of his deadly brand ! 
He sat so firm, he rein'd so well, 
Whole ranks before his charger fell. 
A valiant youth kept by his side. 
With crest and armour crimson dyed ; 
Charged still with him the yielding foe, 
And seconded his every blow. 
The Douglas wonder'd whence he came, 
And ask'd his lineage and his name. 
'Twas he who kept the narrow way, 
Who raised at first the battle fray, 
And roused Dumlanrig and his men — 
Brave Morison of Locherben. 

" My chief," he said, " forgive my fear 
For one than life to me more dear ; 
But late I heard my sister cry, 
* Dumlanrig, now thy weapon ply.' 
Her guard waits in yon hollow lea. 
Beneath the shade of spreading tree." 

Dumlanrig's eye with ardour shone ; 
" Follow !" he cried, and spurr'd him on. 
A close gazoon the horsemen made, 
Douglas and Morison the head. 
And through the ranks impetuous bore, 
By dint of lance and broad claymore, 
'Mid shouts and groans of parting life, 
For hard and doubtful was the strife. 
Behind a knight, firm belted on. 
They found the fair May Morison. 
But why, through all Dumlanrig's train. 
Search her bright eyes, and search in vain \ 
A stranger mounts her on his steed ; 
Brave Morison, where art thou fled ? 
The drivers for their booty fear'd. 
And, soon as Cample-ford was clear'd^j 



140 THE queen's wake. 

To work they fell, and forced away 
Across the stream their mighty prey. 
The bleating flocks in terror ran 
Across the bloody breast of man ; 
Even the dull cattle gazed with dread, 
And, lowing, founder'd o'er the dead. 

The Southrons still the fight maintain ; 
Though broke, they closed and fought again, 
Till shouting drivers gave the word, 
That all the flocks had clear'd the ford ; 
Then to that pass the bands retire. 
And safely braved Dumlanrig's ire. 
Rashly he tried, and tried in vain. 
That steep, that fatal path to gain ; 
Madly prolong'd the unequal fray. 
And lost his men, and lost the day. 
Amid the battle's fiercest shock. 
Three spears were on his bosom broke ; 
Then, forced in flight to seek remede, 
Had it not been his noble steed, 
That swift away his master bore, 
He ne'er had seen Dumlanrig more. 

The day-beam, from his moonlight sleep, 
O'er Queensberry began to peep ; 
Kneel'd drowsy on the mountain fern, 
At length rose tiptoe on the cairn, 
Embracing, in his bosom pale, 
The stars, the moon, and shadowy dale. 
Then what a scene appali'd the view. 
On Cample-moor, as dawning grew ! 
Along the purple heather spread. 
Lay mix'd the dying and the dead ; 
Stern foemen there from quarrel cease^ 
Who ne'er before had met in peace. 
Two kinsmen good the Douglas lost. 
And full three hundred of his host ; 
With one by him lamented most. 
The flower of all the Nithsdale men, 
Younor Morison of Locherben. 



THE QXTEEN'S wake. 141 

The Southrons did no foot pursue, 
Nor seek the conflict to renew. 
They knew not at the rising sun 
What mischief they'd to Douglas done, 
But to the south pursued their way, 
Glad to escape with such a prey. 

Brave Douglas, where thy pride of weir ? 
How stinted in thy bold career ! 
Woe, that the Lowther eagle's look 
Should shrink before the Lowland rook ! 
Woe, that the lordly lion's paw 
Of ravening wolves should sink in awe ! 
But doubly woe, the purple heart 
Should tarnish'd from the field depart ! 

Was it the loss of kinsmen dear, 
Or crusted scratch of Southern spear ? 
Was it thy dumb, thy sullen host, 
Thy glory by misconduct lost ? 
Or thy proud bosom, swelling high. 
Made the round tear roll in thine eye ? 
Ah ! no ; thy heart was doom'd to prove 
The sharper pang of slighted love. 

What vision lingers on the heath, 
Flitting across the field of death ? 
Its gliding motion, smooth and still 
As vapour on the twilight hill. 
Or the last ray of falling even 
Shed through the parting clouds of heaven ? 

Is it a sprite that roams forlorn ? 
Or angel from the bowers of morn. 
Come down a tear of heaven to shed. 
In pity o'er the valiant dead ? 
No vain, no fleeting phantom this ! 
No vision from the bowers of bliss ! 
Its radiant eye and stately tread 
Bespeak some beauteous mountain maid ; 
No rose of Eden's bosom meek, 
Could match that maiden's moisten'd cheek ! 



142 THE queen's ^YAKE. 

No drifted wreatli of morning snow, 
The whiteness of her lofty brow ; 
Nor gem of India's purest dye, 
The lustre of her eagle eye. 

When beauty, Eden's bowers within, 
First stretch'd the arm to deeds of sin ; 
When passion burn'd and prudence slept 
The pitying angels bent and wept. 
But tears more soft were never shed. 
No, not when angels bow'd the head, 
A sigh more mild did never breathe 
O'er human nature whelmed in death. 
Nor woe and dignity combine 
In face so lovely, so benign, 
As Douglas saw that dismal hour. 
Bent o'er a corse on Cample-moor — 
A lady o'er her shield, her trust, 
A brave, an only brother's dust. 

What heart of man unmoved can lie, 
When plays the smile in beauty's eye ? 
Or when a form of grace and love 
To music's notes can lightly move ? 
Yes ; there are hearts unmoved can see 
The smile, the ring, the revelry ; 
But heart of warrior ne'er could bear 
The beam of beauty's crystal tear. 
Well was that morn the maxim proved—^ 
The Douglas saw, the Douglas loved. 

" Oh, cease thy tears, my lovely May, 
Sweet floweret of the banks of Ae, 
His soul thou never canst recall ; 
He fell as warrior wont to fall. 
Deep, deep the loss we both bewail : 
But that deep loss to countervail, 
Far as the day-flight of the hern. 
From Locherben to green Glencairn, 
From where the Shinnel torrents pour 
To the lone vales of Crawford-moor. 



OjHE queen's wake. 143 

'ihe fairy links of Tweed and Lyne, 
All, all the Douglas has, is thine, 
And Douglas too ; whate'er betide, 
Straight thou shalt be Dumlanrig's bride." 

" What ! mighty chief, a bride to thee I 
No, by yon heaven's high Majesty, 
Sooner I'll beg, forlorn and poor. 
Bent at thy meanest vassal's door. 
Than look thy splendid halls within, 
Thou deer wrapt in a lion's skin. 

Here lies the kindest, bravest man ; 
There lie thy kinsmen, pale and wan ; 
What boots thy boasted mountains green ? 
For flock nor herd can there be seen ; 
All driven before thy vaunting foe 
To ruthless slaughter, bleat and low. 
Whilst thou — shame on thy dastard head I— 
A wooing com'st amidst the dead. 

Oh, that this feeble maiden hand 
Could bend the bow or wield the brand ! 
If yeoman muster'd in my hall. 
Or troop'd obsequious at my call, 
My country's honour I'd restore. 
And shame thy face for evermore. 
Go, first thy flocks and herds regain ; 
Revenge thy friends in battle slain ; 
Thy wounded honour heal ; that done, 
Douglas may ask May Morison." 

Dumlanrig's blood to's bosom rush'd, 
His manly cheek like crimson blush'd. 
He call'd three yeomen to his side : 
" Haste, gallant warriors, haste and ride- 
Warn Lindsay on the banks of Daur, 
The fierce M'Turk, and Lochinvaur : 
Tell them that Lennox flies amain ; 
That Maxwell and Glencairn are ta'en ; 
Kilpatrick with the spoiler rides ; 
The Johnston flies, and Jardine hides : 



144 THE queen's wake. 

That I alone am left to figlit 

For country's cause and sovereign's right. 

My friends are fallen — my warriors toil'd— 

My towns are burnt — my vassals spoil'd * 

Yet say — before to-morrow's sun 

With amber tips the mountain dun, 

Either that host of ruthless thieves 

I'll scatter like the forest leaves, 

Or my wrung heart shall cease to play, 

And my right hand the sword to sway. 

At Blackwood I'll their coming bide : 

Haste, gallant warriors, haste and ride." 

He spoke : — each yeoman bent his eye. 
And forward stoop'd in act to fly ; 
No plea was urged, no short demur ; 
Each heel was turn'd to strike the spur. 

As ever ye saw the red deer's brood. 
From covert sprung, traverse the wood ; 
Or heath-fowl beat the mountain wind. 
And leave the fowler fix'd behind ; 
As ever ye saw three arrows spring 
At once, from yew-bow's twanging string — 
So flew the messengers of death. 
And lessening, vanish'd on the heath. 

The Douglas bade his troops with speed 
Prepare due honours for the dead. 
And meet well arm'd at evening still 
On the green cone of Blackford-hill. 
There came M'Turk to aid the war, 
With troops from Shinnel glens and Scaur 5 
Fierce Gordon with the clans of Ken, 
And Lindsay with his Crawford men; 
Old Morton, too, forlorn and grey. 
Whose son had fallen at break of day. 

If troops on earth may e'er withstand 
An onset made by Scottish brand. 
Then lawless rapine sways the throng. 
And conscience whispers — ^* this is wrong */' 



TfiE QUEE^rs WAKE. 145 

But should a foe, whate'er his might, 
To Scotia's dust dispute our right, 
Or dare on native mountain claim 
The poorest atom boasts our name, 
Though high that warrior's banners soar, 
Let him beware the broad claymore. 

Scotland ! thy honours long have stood, 
Though rudely cropp'd, though roll'd in blood ; 
Yet, bathed in warm and purple dew, 
More glorious o'er the ruin grew. 
Long flourish thy paternal line ; 
Arabia's lineage stoops to thine. 

Dumlanrig found his foes secure, 
Stretch'd on the ridge of Locher-moor. 
The hum that wander'd from their host, 
Far on the midnight breeze was lost. 
No deafening drum, no bugle's swell. 
No watch- word pass'd from sentinel ; 
No shght vibration stirr'd the air, 
To warn the Scot a foe was there, 
Save bleat of flocks that wander'd slow, 
And oxen's deep and sullen low. 

What horrors o'er the warrior hang ! 
What vultures watch his soul to fang ! 
What toils ! what snares ! — he hies him on 
Where lightnings flash and thunders groan ; 
Where havoc strikes whole legions low. 
And death's red billows murmuring flow ; 
Yet still he fumes and flounders on. 
Till crush'd the moth — its mem'ry gone ! 

Why should the bard, who loves to mouru 
His maiden's scorn by mountain bourn. 
Or pour his wild harp's fairy tone 
From sounding cliff* or greenwood lone. 
Of slaughter'd foemen proudly tell, 
On deeds of death and horror dwell ? 

Dread was Dumlanrig's martial ire, 
Fierce on the foe he rush'd like fire. 
J 



14(5 THE queen's wake. 

Lindsay of Crauford, known to fame, 
That night first gain'd a hero's name. 
M^Turk stood deep in Southron gore, 
And legions down before him bore ; 
And Gordon, with his Galloway crew, 
O'er floundering ranks resistless flew. 
Short was the strife — they fled as fast 
As chaff' before the northern blast. 

Dumlanrig's flocks were not a few. 
And well their worth Dumlanrig knew ; 
But ne'er so proud was he before 
Of his broad bounds and countless store, 
As when they strung up Nithsdale plain, 
Well guarded, to their hills again. 
With Douglas' name the greenwoods rurg, 
As battle-songs his warriors sung ; 
The banners stream'd in double row, 
The heart above, the rose below. 
His visage glow'd, his pulse beat high. 
And gladness sparkled in his eye : 
For why ? — he knew the lovely May, 
Who in Kilpatrick's castle lay, 
With joy his proud return would view. 
And her impetuous censure rue. 

Well judged he : why should haughty chief 
Intrude himself on lady's grief, 
As if his right — as nought but he 
Were worthy her anxiety ? 
No, warrior, keep thy distance due ; 
Beauty is proud and jealous too. 
If fair and young thy maiden be. 
Know she knew that ere told by thee. 
Be kind, be gentle, heave the sigh. 
And blush before her piercing eye ; 
For, though thou'rt noble, brave, and young. 
If rough thy mien and rude thy tongue. 
Though proudly towers thy trophied pile, 
Hope not for beauty's yielding smile. 



THE queen's wake. 147 

Oh ! well it suits the brave and high, , 

Gentle to prove in lady's eye. 

Dumlanrig found his lovely flower 
Fair as the sunbeam o'er the shower, 
Gentle as zephyr of the plain, 
Sweet as the rose-bud after rain : 
Gone all her scorn and maiden pride, 
She blush'd Dumlanrig's lovely bride. 

James of Dumlanrig, though thy name 
Scarce vibrates in the ear of fame, 
But for thy might and valour keen, 
That gallant house had never been ! 

Blest be thy mem'ry, gallant man, 
Oft flash'd thy broadsword in the van ; 
When stern rebellion rear'd the brand. 
And stain'd the laurels of our land, 
No knight unshaken stood like thee 
In right of injured majesty : 
Even yet, o'er thy forgotten bier, 
A minstrel drops the burning tear. 
And strikes his wild harp's boldest string, 
Thy honours on the breeze to fling, 
That mountains once thine own may know 
From whom the Queensberry honours flow. 

Fair be thy mem'ry, gallant knight ! 
So true in love, so brave in fight ! 
Though o'er thy children's princely urn 
The sculpture towers and seraphs mourn, 
O'er thy green grave shall wave the yew, 
And heaven distil its earliest dew. 



When ceased the bard's protracted song, 
Circled a smile the fair among ; 
The song was free, and soft its fall, 
So soothing, yet so bold withal. 
They loved it well, yet, sooth to say, 
Too long, too varied was the lay. 



148 THE QT7EEN*S WAKE. 

'Twas now the witching time of night, 
When reason strays, and forms that fright 
Are shadow'd on the palsied sight ; 
When fancy moulds upon the mind 
Light visions on the passing wind, 
And woos, with faltering tongue and sigh, 
The shades o'er memory's wilds that fly ; 
And much the circle longed to hear 
Of gliding ghost, or gifted seer, 
That in that still and solemn hour 
Might stretch imagination's power, 
And restless fancy revel free 
In painful, pleasing luxury. 
Just as the battle tale was done, 
The watchman called the hour of one. 

Lucky the hour for him who came. 
Lucky the wish of every dame ; 
The bard who rose at herald's call 
Was wont to sing in Highland hall. 
Where the wild chieftain of M'Lean 
Upheld his dark Hebridean reign ; 
Where floated crane and clamorous gull 
Above the misty shores of Mull ; 
And evermore the billows rave 
Round many a saint and sovereign's grave. 
There, round Columba's ruins grey, 
The shades of monks are wont to stray. 
And slender forms of nuns, that weep 
In moonlight by the murmuring deep. 
O'er early loves and passions cross'd, 
And being's end for ever lost. 
No earthly form their names to save. 
No stem to flourish o'er their grave. 
No blood of theirs beyond the shrine. 
To nurse the human soul divine, 
Still cherish youth by time unworn. 
And flow in ages yet unborn. 
While mind, surviving evermore. 
Unbodied seeks that lonely shore. 



THE QUEEN'S WAKE. lid 

In that wild land our minstrel bred, 
From youth a life of song had led, 
Wandering each shore and upland dull 
With Allan Bawn, the bard of Mull, 
To sing the deeds of old Fingal, 
In every cot and Highland hall. 

Well knew he every ghost that came 
To visit fair Hebridean dame, 
Was that of monk or abbot gone, 
Who once, in cell of pictured stone. 
Of woman thought, and her alone. 

Well knew he every female shade 
To westland chief that visit paid 
In morning pale or evening dun. 
Was that of fair lamenting nun. 
Who once, in cloister'd home forlorn, 
Languish'd for joys in youth forsworn ; 
And oft himself had seen them glide 
At dawning from his own bedside. 

Forth stept he with uncourtly bow. 
The heron plume waved o'er his brow ; 
His garb was blent with varied shade, 
And round him flow'd his Highland plaid. 
But woe to Southland dame and knight 
In minstrel's tale who took delight. 
Though known the air, the song he sung 
Was in the barbarous Highland tongue : 
But tartan' d chiefs in raptures hear 
The strains, the words, to them so dear. 

Thus ran the bold portentous lay. 
As near as Southern tongue can say, 



150 THE queen's wake. 

THE ABBOT M'KINNON. 

THE SEVENTEENTH BARD's SONG. 

M^Kinnon's tall mast salutes the day. 
And beckons the breeze in lona bay ; 
Plays lightly up in the morning sky, 
And nods to the green wave rolling by ; 
The anchor upheaves, the sails unfurl. 
The pennons of silk in the breezes curl ; 
But not one monk on holy ground 
Knows whither the Abbot Sl'Kinnon is bound. 

Well could that bark o'er the ocean glide, 
Though monks and friars alone must guide ; 
For never man of other degree 
On board that sacred ship might be. 
On deck M'Kinnon walk'd soft and slow ; 
The haulers sung from the gilded prow ; 
The helmsman turn'd his brow to the sky, 
Upraised his cowl and upraised his eye. 
And away shot the bark, on the wing of the wind. 
Over billow and bay, like an image of mind. 

Aloft on the turret the monks appear, 
To see where the bark of their abbot would bear ,• 
They saw lieT sweep from lona bay. 
And turn her prow to the north away. 
Still lessen to view in the hazy screen. 
And vanish amid the islands green. 
Then they turn'd their eyes to the female dome, 
And thought of the nuns till the abbot came home. 

Three times the night, with aspect dull. 
Came stealing over the moors of Mull ; 
Three times the sea-gull left the deep, 
To doze on the knob of the dizzy steep. 
By the sound of the ocean luU'd to sleep ; 
And still the watch-lights sailors see 
On the top of the spire and the top of Dun -ye ; 



THE QUEEI^'S WAKE. 151 

And the laugh rings through the sacred dome, 
For still the abbot is not come home. 

But the wolf that nightly swam the sound, 
From Ross's rude impervious bound, 
On the ravenous burrowing race to feed. 
That loved to haunt the home of the dead. 
To him St Columb had left in trust 
To guard the bones of the royal and just, 
Of saints and of kings the sacred dust : 
The savage was scared from his charnel of death, 
And swam to his home in hunger and wrath, 
For he momently saw, through the night so dun. 
The cowering monk and the veiled nun. 
Whispering, sighing, and stealing away 
By cross dark alley and portal grey. 
Oh, wise was the founder, and well said he, 
" Where there are women mischief must be." 

No more the watch-fires gleam to the blast^ 
M'Kinnon and friends arrive at last. 
A stranger youth to the isle they brought. 
Modest of mien and deep of thought. 
In costly sacred robes bedight. 
And he lodged with the abbot by day and by night. 

His breast was graceful, and round withal. 
His leg was taper, his foot was small. 
And his tread so light that it flung no sound 
On listening ear or vault around. 
His eye was the morning's brightest ray. 
And his neck like the swan's in lona bay ; 
His teeth the ivory polish'd new. 
And his lip like the morel when gloss'd with dew, 
While under his cowl's embroider'd fold 
Were seen the curls of waving gold. 
This comely youth, of beauty so bright, 
Abode with the abbot by day and by night. 

When arm in arm ihey walk'd the isle. 
Young friars would beckon and monks would smile ; 



152 THE queen's wake. 

But sires, in dread of sins unstriven. 

Would shake their heads and look up to heaven, 

Afraid the frown of the saint to see, 

Who rear'd their temple amid the sea, 

And pledged his soul to guard the dome, 

Till virtue should fly her western home. 

But now a stranger of hidden degree. 

Too fair, too gentle a man to be — 

This stranger of beauty and step so light. 

Abode with the abbot by day and by night. 

The months and the days flew lightly by, 
The monks were kind and the nuns were shy ; 
But the grey-hair'd sires, in trembling mood, 
Kneel'd at the altar and kiss'd the rood. 

M'Kinnon he dream'd that the saint of the isle 
Stood by his side, and with courteous smile 
Bade him arise from his guilty sleep, 
And pay his respects to the God of the deep. 
In temple that north in the main appear'd. 
Which fire from bowels of ocean had sear'd. 
Which the giant builders of heaven had rear'd, 
To rival in grandeur the stately pile 
Himself had uprear'd in lona's isle ; 
For round them rose the mountains of sand, 
The fishes had left the coasts of the land, 
And so high ran the waves of the angry sea, 
They had drizzled the cross on the top of Dun-ye. 
The cycle was closed, and the period run. 
He had vow'd to the sea, he had vow'd to the sun. 
If in that time rose trouble or pain, 
Their homage to pay to the God of the main. 
Then he bade him haste and the rites prepare. 
Named all the monks should with him fare, 
And promised again to see him there. 

M'Kinnon awoke from his vision'd sleep. 
He open'd his casement and look'd on the deep ; 
He look'd to the mountains, he look'd to the shore, 
The vision amazed him and troubled him sore, 
He never had heard of the rite before ; 



THE queen's wake. 153 

But all was so plain, lie thought meet to obey, 
He durst not declincj and he would not delay. 

Uprose the abbot, uprose the morn, 
Uprose the sun from the Bens of Lorn ; 
And the bark her course to the northward framed, 
With all on board whom the saint had named. 

The clouds were journeying east the sky. 
The wind was low and the swell was high, 
A.nd the glossy sea was heaving bright 
Like ridges and hills of liquid light ; 
While far on her lubric bosom were seen 
The magic dyes of purple and green. 

How joy'd the bark her sides to lave ! 
She lean'd to the lee and she girdled the wave ; 
Aloft on the stayless verge she hung, 
Light on the steep wave veer'd and swung, 
And the crests of the billows before her flung. 
Loud murmur'd the ocean with gulp and with growl, 
The seal swam aloof, and the dark sea-fowl ; 
The pye-duck sought the depth of the main, 
And rose in the wheel of her wake again ; 
And behind her, far to the southward, shone 
A pathway of snow on the waste alone. 

But now the dreadful strand they gain. 
Where rose the sacred dome of the main ; 
Oft had they seen the place before, 
And kept alov^f from the dismal shore, 
But now it rose before their prow. 
And what they beheld they did not know. 
The tall grey forms, in close-set file. 
Upholding the roof of that holy pile ; 
The sheets of foam and the clouds of spray, 
And the groans that rush'd from the portals grey, 
Appall'd their hearts and drove them away. 

They wheePd their bark to the east around. 
And moor'd in basin, by rocks imbound ; 
Then awed to silence, they trode the strand 
Where furnace d pillars in order stand. 



154 THE queen's wake. 

All framed of the liquid burning levin, 

And bent like the bow that spans the heaven, 

Or upright ranged in horrid array. 

With purfle of green o'er the darksome grey. 

Their path was on wondrous pavement of old, 
Its blocks all east in some giant mould. 
Fair hewn and grooved by no mortal hand, 
With countermure guarded by sea and by land. 
The watcher Bushella frown'd over their way, 
Enrobed in the sea-baize, and hooded with grey ; 
The warder that stands by that dome of the deep, 
With spray-shower and rainbow, the entrance to kecf 
But when they drew nigh to the chancel of ocean, 
And saw her waves rush to their raving devotion. 
Astounded and awed to the antes they clung. 
And listen'd the hymns in her temple she sung. 
The song of the cliff, when the winter winds blow. 
The thunder of heaven, the earthquake below, 
Conjoin'd, like the voice of a maiden would be. 
Compared with the anthem there sung by the sea. 

The solemn rows in that darksome den. 
Were dimly seen like the forms of men. 
Like giant monks in ages agone, 
Whom tlie god of the ocean had sear'd to stone, 
And bound in his temple for ever to lean. 
In sackcloth of grey and visors of green, 
An everlasting worship to keep, 
And the big salt tears eternally weep. 

So rapid the motion, the whirl, and the boil. 
So loud was the tumult, so fierce the turmoil, 
Appall'd from those portals of terror they turn. 
On pillar of marble their incense to burn. 
Around the holy flame they pray — 
Then turning their faces all west away, 
On angel pavement each bent his knee, 
And sung this hymn to the God of the sea. 



THE queen's wake. 155 

Thou who makest the ocean to flow, 

Thou who walkest the channels below ; 

To thee, to thee, this incense we heap. 

Thou who knowest not slumber nor sleep — 

Great Spirit that movest on the face of the deep, 

To thee, to thee, we sing to thee, 

God of the western wind, God of the sea ! 

To thee who gatherest with thy right hand 
The little fishes around our land ; 
To thee who breathest in the bellied sail, 
Rulest the shark and the rolling whale, 
Fling'st the sinner to downward grave, 
Light'st the gleam on the mane of the wave, 
Bid'st the billows thy reign deform, 
Laugh'st in the whirlwind, sing'st in the storm, 
Or risest like mountain amid the sea 
Where mountain was never and never will be. 
And rear'st thy proud and thy pale chaperoon 
'Mid walks of the angels and ways of the moon ; 
To thee, to thee, this wine we pour, 
God of the western wind, God of the shower ! 

To thee who bid'st those mountains of brine 
Softly sink in the fair moonshine. 
And spread'st thy couch of silver light. 
To lure to thy bosom the queen of the night ; 
Who weavest the cloud of the ocean dew. 
And the mist that sleeps on her breast so blue ; 
When the murmurs die at the base of the hill. 
And the shadows lie rock'd and slumbering still, 
And the solan's young and the lines of foam 
Are scarcely heaved on thy peaceful home, 
We pour this oil and this wine to thee, 
God of the western wind, God of the sea ! 
— " Greater yet must the offering be." 

The monks gazed round, the abbot grew wan, 
For the closing notes were not sung by man, 



156 THE queen's avake. 

They came from the rock, or they came from the air, 
From voice they knew not, and knew not where ; 
But it sung with a mournful melody, 
" Greater yet must the offering be." 

In holy dread they pass'd away, 
And they walk'd the ridge of that isle so grey, 
And saw the white waves toil and fret 
A hundred fathoms below their feet ; 
They look'd to the countless isles that lie 
From Barra to Mull, and from Jura to Skye ; 
They look'd to heaven, they look'd to the main, 
They look'd at all with a silent pain. 
As on places they were not to see again. 

A little bay lies hid from sight, 
O'erhung by cliffs of dreadful height ; 
When they drew nigh that airy steep, 
They heard a voice rise from the deep, 
And that voice was sweet as voice could be, 
And they fear'd it came from the maid of the sea. 

M'Kinnon lay stretch'd on the verge of the hill, 
And peep'd from the height on the bay so still ; 
And he saw her sit on a weedy stone. 
Laving her fair breast, and singing alone ; 
And aye she sank the wave within. 
Till it gurgled around her lovely chin. 
Then comb'd her locks of the pale sea-green, 
And aye this song was heard between. 

Matilda of Skye 

Alone may lie. 
And list to the wind that whistles by : 

Sad may she be, 

For deep in the sea. 
Deep, deep, deep in the sea ! 
This night her lover shall sleep with me. 



THE queen's wake. 157 

She may turn and hide 

From the spirits that glide. 
And the ghost that stands at her bed-side ; 
But never a kiss the vow shall seal. 
Nor warm embrace her bosom feel ; 
For far, far down in the floors below, 
Moist as this rock-weed, cold as the snow, 
With the eel, and the clam, and the pearl of the deep, 
On soft sea-flowers her lover shall sleep ; 
And long and sound shall his slumber be 
In the coral bowers of the deep with me. 

The trembling sun, far, far away. 
Shall pour on his couch a soften'd ray, 
And his mantle shall wave in the flowing tide. 
And the little fishes shall turn aside ; 
But the waves and the tides of the sea shall cease, 
Ere wakes her love from his bed of peace. 
No home ! — no kiss ! — No, never ! never ! 
His couch is spread for ever and ever. 

The abbot arose in dumb dismay. 
They turn'd and fled from the height away. 
For dark and portentous was the day. 
When they came in view of their rocking sail, 
They saw an old man who sat on the wale ; 
His beard was long, and silver grey, 
Like the rime that falls at the break of day ; 
His locks like wool, and his colour wan. 
And he scarcely look'd like an earthly man. 

They ask'd his errand, they ask'd his name, 
Whereunto bound, and whence he came ; 
But a sullen thoughtful silence he kept. 
And turn'd his face to the sea and wept. 
Some gave him welcome, and some gave him scorn, 
But the abbot stood pale, with terror o'erborne ; 
He tried to be jocund, but trembled the more, 
For he thought he had seen the face before. 

Away went the ship with her canvass all spread, 
So glad to escape from that island of dread ; 



158 THE queen's wake. 

And skimm'd the blue wave like a streamer of light, 
Till fell the dim veil 'twixt the day and the night. 

Then the old man arose and stood up on the prow, 
And fix'd his dim eyes on the ocean below ; 
And they heard him saying, " Oh, woe is me ! 
But great as the sin must the sacrifice be." 
Oh, mild was his eye, and his manner sublime, 
When he look'd unto heaven, and said, " Now is the time !'* 
He look'd to the weather, he look'd to the lee, 
He look'd as for something he dreaded to see. 
Then stretch'd his pale hand, and pointed his eye 
To a gleam on the verge of the eastern sky. 

The monks soon beheld, on the lofty Ben-More, 
A sight which they never had seen before — 
A belt of blue lightning around it was driven, 
And its crown was encircled by morion of heaven ; 
And they heard a herald that loud did cry, 
" Prepare the way for the Abbot of I P' 

Then a sound arose, they knew not where. 
It came from the sea, or it came from the air, 
'Twas louder than tempest that ever blew. 
And the sea-fowls scream'd, and in terror flew ; 
Some ran to the cords, some kneel'd at the shrine. 
But all the wild elements seem'd to combine ; 
'Twas just but one moment of stir and commotion, 
And down went the ship like a bird of the ocean. 

This moment she sail'd all stately and fair. 
The next nor ship nor shadow was there, 
But a boil that arose from the deep below, 
A mounting gurgling column of snow ; 
It sunk away with a murmuring moan. 
The sea is calm, and the sinners are gone ? 



T'HE queen's wake. 159 



CONCLUSION. 

Friend of the bard ! peace to thy heart, 
Long hast thou acted generous part — 
Long has thy courteous heart in pain 
Attended to a feeble strain, 
While oft abash'd has sunk thine eye — 
Thy task is done, the Wake is by ! 

I saw thy fear, I knew it just ; 
'Twas not for minstrels long in dust. 
But for the fond and venturous swain 
Who dared to wake their notes again ; 
Yet oft thine eye has spoke delight, 
I mark'd it well, and bless'd the sight : 
No sour disdain, nor manner cold, 
Noted contempt for tales of old ; 
Oft hast thou at the fancies smiled. 
And marvell'd at the legends wild. 
Thy task is o'er — peace to thy heart ! 
For thou hast acted generous part. 

'Tis said that thirty bards appear'd, 
That thirty names were register'd, 
With whom were titled chiefs combined ; 
But some are lost, and some declined. 
Woes me, that all my mountain lore 
Has been unfit to rescue more ! 
And that my guideless rustic skill 
Has told those ancient tales so ill ! 

The prize harp still hung on the wall ; 
The bards were warn'd to leave the hall. 
Till courtiers gave the judgment true, 
To whom the splendid prize was due. 
What curious wight will pass with me, 
The anxious motley group to see ; 
List their remarks of right and wrong. 
Of skilful hand and faulty song, 
And drink one glass the bards among 1 



160 THE queen's wake. 

There sit the men — beliold tliem there, 
Made maidens quake and courtiers stare, 
Whose names shall future ages tell ; 
What do they seem ? — behold them well, 
A simpler race you shall not see, 
Awkward and vain as men can be ; 
Light as the fumes of fervid wine, 
Or foam-bells floating on the brine, 
The gossamers in air that sail, 
Or down that dances in the gale. 

Each spoke of others' fame and skill 
With high applause, but jealous will. 
Each song, each strain, he erst had known, 
And all had faults except his own : 
Plaudits were mix'd with meaning jeers, 
For all had hopes, and all had fears. 

A herald rose the court among, 
And named each bard, and named his song ; 
Rizzio was named from royal chair — 
" Rizzio !'' re-echoed many a fair. 
Each song had some that song approved. 
And voices gave for bard beloved. 
The first division call'd and done, 
Gardyn stood highest just by one. 

Queen Mary redden'd, wroth was she 
Her favourite thus outdone to see, 
Reproved her squire in high disdain, 
And caused him call the votes again. 
Strange though it seem, the truth I say. 
Feature of that unyielding day, 
Her favourite's voters counted o'er, 
Were found much fewer than before. 
Glisten'd her eyes with pungent dew ; 
She found with whom she had to do. 

Again the royal gallery rung 
W^ith names of those who second sung. 
When, spite of haughty Highland blood, 
The bard of Ettrick upmost stood. 



' THE QUEEJ^-'S WAKE. 161 

The rest were named who sung so late, 
And after long and keen debate. 
The specious nobles of the south 
Carried the nameless stranger youth ; 
Though Highland wrath was at the full, 
Contending for the bard of Mull. 

Then did the worst dispute begin, 
Which of the three the prize should win. 
'Twas party all — not minstrel worth, 
But honour of the south and north ; 
And nought was heard throughout the courtj 
But taunt, and sneer, and keen retort. 
High ran the words, and fierce the fume, 
And from beneath each nodding plume 
lied look was cast that vengeance said, 
And palm on broadsword's hilt was laid ; 
While Lowland jeer and Highland mood 
Threaten'd to end the Wake in blood. 

Rose from his seat the Lord of "Mar, 
Serene in counsel as in war. 
" For shame," said he, " contendants all ! 
This outrage done in royal hall. 
Is to our country foul disgrace. 
What ! mock our sovereign to her face ! 
Whose generous heart and taste refined. 
Alike to bard and courtier kind. 
This high repast for all design'd. 
For shame ! your party strife suspend, 
And list the counsel of a friend. 

Unmeet it is for you or me 
To lessen one of all the three. 
Each excellent in his degree ; 
But taste, as sapient sages tell, 
Varies with climes in which we dwelL 

Fair emblem of the Border dale. 
Is cadence soft and simple tale ; 
While stern romantic Highland clime^ 
Still nourishes the rude sublime. 



162 THE queen's wake. 

If Border ear may taste the wortli 
Of the wild pathos of the north ; 
Or that sublimed by Ossian's lay, 
By forest dark and mountain grey, 
By clouds which frowning cliffs deform, 
By roaring flood and raving storm, 
Enjoy the smooth, the fairy tale, 
Or evening song of Teviotdale ; 
Then trow you may the tides adjourn, 
And nature from her pathway turn ; 
The wild-duck drive to mountain tree, 
The capercayle to swim the sea. 
The heathcock to the shelvy shore. 
The partridge to the mountain hoar. 
And bring the red-eyed ptarmigan 
To dwell by the abodes of man. 

To end this strife, unruled and vain, 
Let all the three be call'd again ; 
Their skill alternately be tried. 
And let the Queen alone decide. 
Then hush'd be jeer and answer proud" — 
He said, and all consenting, bow'd. 

When word was brought to bards' retreat, 
The group were all in dire debate ; 
The Border youth (that stranger wight) 
Had quarrel I'd with the clans outright ; 
Had placed their merits out of ken. 
Deriding both the songs and men. 
'Tis said — but few the charge believes — 
He branded them as fools and thieves. 
Certes that war and woe had been. 
For gleaming dirks unsheathed were seen. 
For Highland minstrels ill could brook 
His taunting word and haughty look. 

The youth was chafed, and with disdain 
Eefused to touch his harp again ; 
Said he desired no more renown 
Than keep those Highland boasters down ; 



THE queen's wake. 163 

Now lie had seen tliem quite outdone. 
The south had two, the north but one ; 
But should they bear the prize away, 
For that he should not, would not play ; 
He cared for no such guerdon mean, 
Nor for the harp, nor for the Queen. 

His claim withdrawn, the victors twain 
Repair'd to prove their skill again. 

The song that tuneful Gardyn sung 
Is still admired by old and young. 
And long shall be at evening fold. 
While songs are sung or tales are told. 
Of stolen delights began the song. 
Of love the Carron \voods among ; 
Of lady borne from Carron side 
To Barnard towers and halls of pride ; 
Of jealous lord and doubtful bride ; 
And ended with Gilmorice' doom, 
Cut off in manhood's early bloom. 
Soft rung the closing notes and slow. 
And every heart was steep'd in woe. 

The harp of Ettrick rung again ; 
Her bard, intent on fairy strain. 
And fairy freak by moonlight sbaw, 
Sung young Tam Lean of Carterha'. 

Queen Mary's harp on high that hiing. 
And every tone responsive rung, 
With gems and gold that dazzling shone, 
That harp is to the Highlands gone. 
Gardyn is crown'd with garlands gay, 
And bears the envied prize away. 
Long, long that harp, the hills among, 
Kesounded Ossian's mounting song ; 
Waked slumbering lyres from every tree 
Adown the banks of Don and Dee, 
At length was borne, by beauteous bride, 
To woo the airs on Garry side. 



164 THE queen's wake. 

When full two liimdred years had fled, 
And all the northern bards were dead, 
That costly harp, of wondrous mould, 
Defaced of all its gems and gold, 
With that which Gardyn erst did play, 
Back to Dun Edin found its way. 

As Mary's hand the victor crown'd, 
And twined the wreath his temples round, 
Loud were the shouts of Highland chief — 
The Lowlanders were dumb with grief ; 
And the poor bard of Ettrick stood 
Like statue pale, in moveless mood ; 
Like ghost, which oft his eyes had seen 
At gloaming in his glens so green. 
Queen Mary saw the minstrel's pain, 
And bade from bootless grief refrain. 

She said a boon to him should fall 
Worth all the harps in royal hall ; 
Of Scottish song a countless store. 
Precious remains of minstrel lore. 
And cottage, by a silver rill, 
Should all reward his rustic skill : 
Did other gift his bosom claim. 
He needed but that gift to name. 

" Oh, my fair queen," the minstrel said, 
With faltering voice and hanging head, 
" Your cottage keep, and minstrel lore — 
Grant me a harp, I ask no more. 
From thy own hand a lyre 1 crave, 
That boon alone my heart can save." 

" Well hast thou ask'd ; and be it known, 
I have a harp of old renown 
Hath many an ardent wight beguiled ; 
'Twas framed by wizard of the wild, 
And will not yield one measure bland 
Beneath a skilless stranger hand ; 
But once her powers by progress found, 
Oh, there is magic in the sound ! 



THE QUEEI^'S WAKE. 165 

When worldly woes oppress tliy lieart — - 
And thou and all must share a part — 
Should scorn be cast from maiden's eye, 
Should friendship fail, or fortune fly ; 
Steal with thy harp to lonely brake, 
Her wild, her soothing numbers wake, 
And soon corroding cares shall cease, 
And passion's host be lull'd to peace ; 
Angels a gilded screen shall cast. 
That cheers the future, veils the past. 

That harp will make the elves of eve 
Their dwelling in the moonbeam leave, 
And ope thine eyes by haunted tree 
Their glittering tiny forms to see. 
The flitting shades that woo the glen, 
'Twill shape to forms of living men — 
To forms on earth no more you see, 
Who once were loved and aye will be ; 
And holiest converse you may prove 
Of things below and things above." 

" That is, that is the harp for me !" 
Said the rapt bard in ecstacy ; 
" This soothing, this exhaustless store. 
Grant me, my queen — I ask no more 1" 

Oh, when the weeping minstrel laid 
The relic in his old grey plaid. 
When Holyrood he left behind 
To gain his hills of mist and wind, 
Never was hero of renown. 
Or monarch prouder of his crown. 
He tripp'd the vale, he climb'd the coomb, 
The mountain breeze began to boom ; 
Aye when the magic chords it rung. 
He raised his voice and blithely sung. 
" Hush, my wild harp, thy notes forbear ; 
No blooming maids nor elves are here : 
Forbear a while that witching tone. 
Thou must not, canst not sing alone. 
When summer flings her watchet screen 
At eve o'er Ettrick woods so green, 



166 THE queen's wake. 

Thy notes shall many a heart beguile— 
Young beauty's eye shall o'er thee smile, 
And fairies trip it merrily 
Around my royal harp and me." 

Long has that harp, of magic tone, 
To all the minstrel world been known : 
Who has not heard her witching lays. 
Of Ettrick banks and Yarrow braes ? 
But that sweet bard, who sung and play'd 
Of many a feat and border raid. 
Of many a knight and lovely maid. 
When forced to leave his harp behind, 
Did all her tuneful chords unwind ; 
And many ages pass'd and came 
Ere man so well could tune the same. 

Bangour the daring task essay 'd. 
Not half the chords his fingers play'd ; 
Yet even then some thrilUng lays 
Bespoke the harp of ancient days. 

Redoubted Ramsay's peasant skill 
Flung some strain'd notes along the hill ; 
His was some lyre from lady's hall, 
And not the mountain harp at all. 

Langhorne arrived from southern dale. 
And chimed'his notes on Yarrow vale ; 
They would not, could not, touch the heart- 
His was the modish lyre of art. 

Sweet rung the harp to Logan's hand : 
Then Leyden came from border land. 
With dauntless heart and ardour high, 
And wild impatience in his eye. 
Though false his tones at times might be, 
Though wild notes marr'd the symphony 
Between, the glowing measure stole 
That spoke the bard's inspired soul. 
Sad were those strains, when hymn'd afar 
On the green vales of Malabar 



THE queen's wake. 167 

O'er seas beneath the golden morn, 
They travell'd, on the monsoon borne, 
Thrilling the heart of Indian maid, 
Beneath the wild banana's shade. 
Leyden, a shepherd wails thy fate, 
And Scotland knows her loss too late ! 

The day arrived — blest be the day, 
Walter the Abbot came that way ! 
The sacred relic met his view — 
Ah ! well the pledge of heaven he knew ! 
He screw'd the chords, he tried a strain ; 
'Twas wild — he tuned and tried again, 
Then pour'd the numbers bold and free, 
The simple magic melody. 

The land was charm'd to list his lays ; 
It knew the harp of ancient days. 
The border chiefs, that long had been 
In sepulchres unhearsed and green, 
Pass'd from their mouldy vaults away, 
In armour red, and stern array. 
And by their moonlight halls were seen. 
In visor, helm, and habergeon. 
Even fairies sought our land again. 
So powerful was the magic strain. 

Blest be his generous heart for aye ! 
He told me where the relic lay ; 
Pointed my way with ready will, 
Afar on Ettrick's wildest hill ; 
Watch'd my first notes with curious eye. 
And wonder'd at my minstrelsy : 
He little ween'd a parent's tongue 
Such strains had o'er my cradle sung. 

But when, to native feelings true, 
T struck upon a chord was new ; 
When by myself I 'gan to play. 
He tried to wile my harp away. 
Just when her notes began with skill, 
To sound beneath the southern hill, 



THE QUEEN S WAKE. 

And twine around my bosom's core, 
How could we part for evermore ? 
'Twas kindness all — I cannot blame — 
For bootless is the minstrel flame ; 
But sure, a bard might well have known 
Another's feelings by his own ! 

Of change enamour'd, woe the while ! 
He left our mountains, left the isle ; 
And far to other kingdoms bore 
The Caledonian harp of yore ; 
But to the hand that framed her true. 
Only by force one strain she threw. 
That harp he never more shall see. 
Unless 'mong Scotland's hills with me. 



Now, my loved harp, a while farewell. 

I leave thee on the old grey thorn ; 
The evening dews will mar thy swell. 

That waked to joy the cheerful morn. 
Farewell, sweet soother of my woe ! 

Chill blows the blast around my head ; 
And louder yet that blast may blow, 

When down this weary vale I've sped. 
The w^'eath lies on Saint Mary's shore ; 

The mountain sounds are harsh and loud ; 
The lofty brows of stern Clokmore 

Are visor'd with the moving cloud. 

But winter's deadly hues shall fade 
On moorland bald and mountain shaw, 

And soon the rainbow's lovely shade 
Sleep on the breast of Bowerhope Law. 

Then will the glowing suns of spring, 
The genial shower and stealing dew, 

Wake every forest bird to sing. 
And every mountain flower renew. 



THE queen's wake. 169 

But not the rainbow's ample ring, 

That spans the glen and mountain grey, 

Though fann'd by western breeze's wing, 
And sunn'd by summer's glowing ray, 

To man decay'd, can ever more 

Renew the age of love and glee ! 
Can ever second spring restore 

To my old mountain harp and me ! 

But when the hue of soften'd green 

Spreads over hill and lonely lea, 
And lowly primrose opes unseen 

Her virgin bosom to the bee ; 

When hawthorns breathe their odours far, 

And carols hail the year's return ; 
And daisy spreads her silver star, 

Unheeded, by the mountain burn ; 

Then will I seek the aged thorn, 

The haunted wild and fairy ring, 
Where oft thy erring numbers borne. 

Have taught the wandering winds to sing. 



NOTES. 



Note I. 
Those wakes, now %)lay'd hy minstrels poor 
At midnight's darkest, dullest hour — 
Those humble wakes, now scorn'd by all. 
Were first begun in courtly hall. — P. 19. 
In former days, the term wake was only used to distinguisli the 
festive meeting which took place on the evening previous to the 
dedication of any particular church or chapel. The company sat 
up all night, and, in England, amused themselves in various 
ways, as their inclinations were by habit or study directed. In 
Scotland, however, which was always the land of music and of 
song, music and song were the principal, often the only, amuse- 
ments of the wake. These songs were generally of a sacred or 
serious nature, and were chanted to the old simple melodies of 
the country. "The Bush aboon Traquair," "The Broom of 
Cowdenknows," " John, come kiss me now," and many others, 
are still extant, set to the Psalms of David, and other spiritual 
songs, the psalms being turned into a rude metre corresponding 
to the various measures of the tunes. 

The difference in the application of the term which exists in 
the two sister kingdoms, sufficiently explains the consequences - 
of the wakes in either. In England they have given rise to many 
fairs and festivals of long standing ; and, from that origin, every 
fair or festival is denominated a ivake. In Scotland the term is 
not used to distinguish any thing either subsistent or relative, 
save those serenades played by itinerant and nameless minstrels 
in the streets and squares of Edinburgh which are inhabited by 
the great and v/ealth}', after midnight, about the time of the 
Christmas holidays. These seem to be the only remnant of the 
ancient wakes now in Scotland, and their effect upon a mind that 
delights in music is soothing and delicious beyond all previous 
conception. A person who can relish the concord of sweet sounds, 
graduallj' recalled from sleep by the music of the wakes, of which 
he had no previous anticipation, never fails of being deprived, for 



172 NOTES TO THE QUEEN'S WAKE. 

a considerable time, of all recollection, what condition, -what 
place, or what world he is in. The minstrels who, in the reign 
of the Stuarts, enjoyed privileges which were even denied to tho 
principal nobility, were by degrees driven from the tables of the 
great to the second, and afterwards to the common hall, that 
their music and songs might be heard, while they themselves 
were unseen. From the common haU they were obliged to re- 
tire to the porch or court ; and so low has the characters of the 
minstrels descended, that the performers of the Christmas wakes 
are wholly unknown to the most part of those whom they sere- 
nade. They seem to be despised, but enjoy some small privileges, 
in order to keep up a name of high and ancient origin. 

Note II. 

There rode the lords of France and Spaing 

0/ England, Flanders, and Lorraine ; 

While serried thousands round them stood. 

From shore o/Leith to Holyrood. — P. 22. 
HoUingshed describes Queen Mary's landing in Scotland, with 
her early misfortunes and accomplishments, after this manner : 
— *' She arrived at Leith the 20th of August, in the year of our 
Lord 1561, where she was honourably received by the Earl of 
Argj^le, the Lord Erskine, the Prior of St Andrews, and the 
burgesses of Edinburgh, and conveyed to the Abbie of Holie- 
rood-house, for (as saith Buchanan) when some had spread abroad 
her landing in Scotland, the nobility and others assembled out of 
all parts of the realme, as it were to a common spectacle. 

This did they, partly to congratulate her return, and partly to 
shew the dutie which they alwais bear unto her (when she was 
absent) , either to have thanks therefore, or to prevent the slan- 
ders of the enemies : wherefore not a few, by these beginnings of 
her reign, did gesse what would follow, although, in those so 
variable notions of the minds of the people, every one was very 
desirous to see their queen offered unto them (unlocked for), after 
80 many haps of both fortunes as had befallen her. For, when 
she was but six days old, she lost her father among the cruel tem- 
pests of battle, and was, with great diligence, brought up by her 
mother (being a chosen and worthy person), but yet left as a prize 
to others, by reason of civil sedition in Scotland, and of outward 
wars with other nations, being further led abroad to all the dangers 
of frowning fortune, before she could know what evil did mean. 

For leaving her own country, she was nourished as a banished 
person, and hardly preserved in life from the weapons of her 
enemies and violence of the seas. After Avhich fortune began to 
flatter her, in that she honoured her with a worthy marriage, 
which in truth, was rather a shadow of joie to this queen, than 



NOTES TO THE QUEEN's WAKE. 173 

any comfort at all. For, shortly after the same, all things were 
turned to sorrow by the death of her new young husband, and of 
her old and grieved mother, by loss of her new kingdom, and by 
the doubtful possession of her old heritable realme. But as for 
these things she was both pitied and praised, so was she also for 
gifts of nature as much beloved and favoured, in that beneficial 
nature (or rather good God) had indued her with a beautiful face, 
a well composed body, an excellent wit, a mild nature, and good 
behaviour, which she had artificially furthered by courtly educa- 
tion and affable demeanour. Whereby, at the first sight, she wan 
unto her the hearts of most, and confirmed the love of her faithful 
subjects."— iJoZ?. p. 314, Arbroath Ed. 

With regard to the music, which so deeply engaged her atten- 
tion, we have different accounts by contemporaries, and those at 
complete variance with one another. Knox says, " Fyres of jo}* 
were set furth at night, and a companie of maist honest men, 
with instruments of musick, gave ther salutation at her chalmer 
Avindo : the melodic, as sche alleged, lyked her weill, and sche 
willed the sam to be continued sum nychts eftir with grit dilli- 
gence." But Dufresnoy, who was one of the party who accom- 
panied the queen, gives a very different account of these Scottish 
minstrels. "We landed at Leith," says he, "and Avent from 
thence to Edinburgh, which is but a short league distant. The 
queen went there on horseback, and the lords and ladies who 
accompanied her upon the little wretched hackneys of the 
country, as wretchedly caparisoned ; at sight of which the 
queen began to weep, and to compare them with the pomp and 
superb palfrej's of France. But there was no remedy but pa- 
tience. What was worst of all, being arrived at Edinburgh, and 
retired to rest in the abbey (which is really a fine building, and 
not at all partaking of the rudeness of that country) , there came 
under her window a crew of five or six hundred scoundrels from 
the city, who gave her a serenade with wretched violins and little 
rebecks, of which there are enough in that country, and began to 
sing psalms so miserably mistimed and mistuned, that nothing 
could be worse. Alas ! what music ! and wiiat a night's rest !" 

The Frenchman has had no taste for Scottish music— such an- 
other concert is certainly not on record. 

Note III. 
Ah ! Kennedy, vengeance hangs over thine head . 
Escape to thy native Glengai-ry forlorn. — P. 40. 
The Clan Kennedy was only in the present age finally expelled 
from Glengarry, and forced to disperse over this and other 
countries. Its character among the Highlanders, is that of the 
most savage and irreclaimable tribe that ever infested the moun- 
tains of the nortli. 



174 NOTES TO THE QUEEN'S WAKE. 



Note IV. 
The Witch of Fife— V. 48. 
It may suffice to mention, once for all, that the catastrophe of 
this tale, as well as the principal events related in the tales of 
*' Old David" and " Macgregor," are all founded on popular tradi- 
tions. So is also the romantic story of Kilmeny's disappearance 
and revisiting her friends, after being seven years in Fairj^land. 
The tradition bears some resemblance to the old ballads of ' ' Tarn 
Lean" and *' Thomas of Ercildon ;" and it is not improbable that 
all the three may have drawn their origin from the same ancient 
romance. 

Note V. 
GUn-Avin.—V. QO. 

There are many scenes among the Grampian deserts which 
amaze the traveller who ventures to explore them ; and in the 
most pathless wastes the most striking landscapes are often con- 
cealed. Glen- Avin exceeds them all in what may be termed stern 
and solemn grandeur. It is indeed a sublime solitude, in which 
the principal feature is deformity ; yet that deformity is mixed 
with lines of wild beauty, such as an extensive lake, with its 
islets and bays, the straggling trees, and the spots of shaded 
green ; and altogether it is such a scene as man has rarely looked 
upon. I spent a summer day in visiting it. The hills were clear 
of mist, yet the heavens were extremely dark — the effect upon 
the scene exceeded all description. My mind, during the whole 
day, experienced the same sort of sensation as if I had been in a 
dream ; and on returning from the excursion, I did not wonder 
at the superstition of the neighbouring inhabitants, who believe 
it to be the summer haunt of innumerable tribes of fairies, and 
many other spirits, some of whom seem to be the most fantastic, 
and to behave in the most eccentric manner, of any I ever before 
heard of. Though the glen is upwards of twenty miles in length , 
and of prodigious extent, it contains no human habitation. It 
lies in the west corner of Banffshire, in the very middle of the 
Grampian hills. 

Note VI. 
Cft had that seer at break of morn 
Beheld the fahm glide o'er the fell. — P. 61. 

Fahm is a little ugly monster, who frequents the summits of 
the mountains around Glen- Avin, and no other place in the world 
that I know of. My guide, D. M' Queen, declared that he had 
himself seen him, and, by his description, Fahm appears to be 
210 native of this world, but an occasional visitant, whose inten- 



NOTES TO THE QUEEN's WAKE. 175 

tions are evil and dangerous. He is only seen about the break 
of day, and on the highest verge of the mountain. His head is 
twice as large as his whole body beside ; and if any living crea- 
ture cross the track over which he has passed before the sun 
shine upon it, certain death is the consequence. The head oi 
that person or animal instantly begins to swell, grows to an im- 
mense size, and finally bui'sts. Such a disease is really incident 
to sheep on those heights, and in several parts of the kingdom, 
v/here the grounds are elevated to a great height above the sea ; 
but in no place save Glen-Avin is Fahm blamed for it. 

Note VH. 

Even far on Yarrow's faiy^y dale, 

The shepherd paused in dumb dismay ; 

And passing shrieks adown the vale. 
Lured many a pitying hind away. — P. 63. 
It was reckoned a cui-ious and unaccountable circumstance, 
that, during the time of a great fall of snow by night, a cry, as of 
a person who had lost his way in the storm, was heard along the 
vale of Ettrick from its head to its foot. What was the people's 
astonishment, when it was authenticated, that upwards of 
twenty parties had all been out with torches, lanterns, &c., at 
the same hour of the night, calling and searching after some un- 
known person, whom they believed perishing in the snow, and 
that none of them had discovered any such person ! The word 
spread — the circumstances were magnified— and the consternation 
became general. The people believed that a whole horde of evil 
spirits had been abroad in the valley, endeavouring to lure them 
away to their destruction — there was no man sure of his life ! — 
prayers and thanksgivings were offered up to heaven in every 
hamlet, and resolutions unanimously formed, that no man perish* 
ing in the snow should ever be looked after again as long as the 
world stood. 

When the astonishment had somewhat subsided by exhausting 
itself, and the tale of horror spread too wide ever to be recalled, 
a lad, without the smallest reference to the phenomenon, chanced 
to mention, that on the night of the storm, when he was out on 
the hill turning his sheep to some shelter, a flock of swans passed 
over his head toward the western sea, which was a sure signal of 
severe weather ; and that at intervals they were always shouting 
and answering one another, in an extraordinary and rather fear- 
some manner. It was an unfortunate discovery, and marred the 
harmony of many an evening's conversation ! In whatever cot 
the circumstance was mentioned, the old shepherds rose and 
went out — the younkers, who had listened to the prayers with 
reverence and fear, bit their lips— the matrons plied away at their 
wheels in silence— it was singular that none of them should have 



176 NOTES TO THE QUEEK'S WAKE. 

known the voice of a swan from that of the dovil I— they were 
very angry with the lad, and regarded him as a sort of blas- 
phemer. 

Note VIII. 
See yon lone cairn so grey with age, 

Above the base of proud Cairn- Gorm, — P. 64. 
I only saw this old cairn at a distance ; hut the narrative which 
my guide gave me of the old man's loss was very affecting. He 
had gone to the forest in November to look after some goats that 
were missing, when a dreadful storm came suddenly on, the 
effects of which were felt throughout the kingdom. It was well 
enough known that he was lost in the forest, but the snow being 
so deep, it was judged impossible to find the bod}', and no one 
looked after it. It was not discovered until the harvest following, 
when it was found accidentally by a shepherd. The plaid and 
clothes, which were uppermost, not being decayed, it appeared 
like the body of a man lying entire ; but when he began to move 
them, the dry bones rattled together, and the bare white scull 
was lying in the bonnet. 

Note IX. 
Old David.— F. €€, 
I remember hearing a very old man, named David Laidlaw, 
who lived somewhere in the neighbourhood of Hawick, relate 
many of the adventures of this old moss-trooper, his great pro- 
genitor, and the.first who ever bore the name. He described him 
as a great champion— a man quite invincible — and quoted several 
verses of a ballad relating to him, which I never heard either 
before or since. I remember only one of them. 

* ' There was ane banna of barley meal 
Cam duntin dune by Davy's shell ; 
But out cam Davy and his lads, 
And dang the banna a' in blads." 

He explained how this " bannock of barley meal" meant a rich 
booty, which the old hero captured from a band of marauders. 
He lived at Garwell in Eskdale-moor. 

Lochy-Law, where the principal scene of this tale is laid, is a 
hill on the lands of Shorthope in the wUds of Ettrick. The Fairy 
Slack is up in the middle of the hill, a very curious ravine, and 
would be much more so when overshadowed with wood. The 
Black Burn which joins the Ettrick immediately below this hill, 
has been haunted from time immemorial, both by the fairies 
and the ghost of a wandering minstrel, who was cruelly murdered 
there, and who sleeps in a lone grave a small distance from the 
ford. 



NOiCES TO THE queen's WAKE. 177 



Note X. 
And fears of elf and fairt/ raid, 
Have like a v^orning dream decayed. — P. 76. 
The fairies have now totally disappeared, and it is a pity they 
should ; for they seem to have been the most delightful little 
spirits that ever hamited the Scottish dells. There are only very 
few now remaining alive who have ever seen them ; and when 
they did, it was on Hallow-evenings while they were young, 
when the gospel was not very rife in the country. But, strange 
as it may appear, with the witches it is far otherwise. Xever, 
in the most superstitious ages, was the existence of witches, or 
the influence of their diabolical power, more firmly believed in, 
than by the inhabitants of the mountains of Ettrick Forest at 
the present day. Many precautions and charms are used to avert 
this influence ; and scarcely does a summer elapse in which there 
are not some of the most gross incantations practised, iii order to 
free flocks and herds from the blasting power of these old hags. 
There are two farmers still living, who will both make oath that 
they have wounded several old wives with shot, as they were tra- 
versing the air in the shapes of moor-fowl and partridges. A very 
singular amusement that for old wives ! I heard one of thesa 
gentlemen relate, with the utmost seriousness, and as a matter he 
did not wish to be generally kno\%Ti, that, one morning, going out 
a-fowling, he sprung a pair of moor-fowl in a place where it was 
not customary for moor-fowl to stay ; he fired at the hen— 
woimded her, and eyed her until she alighted bej'ond an old 
dike ; when he went to the spot, his astonishment may be well 

conceived when he found l^cU pickmg the hail out of her 

limbs ! He was extremely vexed that he had not shot the cock, 
for he was almost certain it was no other than Wattie Grieve/ 

The tales and anecdotes of celebrated witches that are still 
related in the country, are extremely whimsical and diverting. 
The following is a lueU- authenticated one. A number of gentle- 
men were one day met for a chase on the lands of Xewhouse and 
Kirkhope ; their greyhounds were numerous and keen, but not 
a hare could they raise. At length a boy came to them, who 
offered to start a hare to them, if they would give him a guinea, 
and the black greyhound to hold. The demand was singular, 
but it was peremptory, and on no other conditions would he 
comply. The guerdon was accordingly paid ; the hare was started, 
and the sport afibrded by the chase was excellent— the greyhounds 
were aU bafiQed, and began to give up one by one, when one of the 
party came slily behind the bo>', and cut the leash in which he 
held the black dog — away he flew to join the chase. The boy, 
losing all recollection, ran. bawling out, with great vociferation, 



178 NOTES TO THE QUEEN'S WAKE. 

"Hay, mither, rin ! Hay, rin ye auld witch, if ever ye ran i' 
yer life ! Rin, mither, rin !' The black dog came fast up vvith 
her, and was just beginning to mouth her, when she sprung in at 
the window of a little cottage and escaped. The riders soon came 
to the place, and entered the cot in search of the hare ; but, lo ! 
there was no living creature there but the old woman, lying pant- 
ing in a bed, so breathless that she could not speak a word ! 

But the best old witch tale that remains, is that which is re- 
lated of the celebrated Michael Scott, master of Oakwad. Sir 
Walter Scott has preserved it, but so altered from the original 
form that it is not easy to recognise it. The old people tell it as 
follows : — There was one of Mr Michael's tenants who had a wife 
that was the most notable witch of the age. So extraordinary 
were her powers, that the country people began to put them in 
competition with those of the master, and say, that in some can- 
trips she surpassed him. Michael could ill brook such insinua- 
tions ; for there is always jealousy between great characters, and 
went over one day with his dogs on pretence of hunting, but in 
reality with an intent of exercising some of his infernal power in 

the chastisement of Lucky (I have the best reason in the 

world for concealing her reputed name). He found her alone in 
the field weeding lint ; and desired her, in a friendly manner, to 
show him some of her powerful art. She was very angry with 
him, and denied that she had any supernatural skill. He, how- 
ever, continuing to press her, she told him sharply to let her alone, 
else she would make him repent the day he troubled her. How 
she perceived the virtues of Michael's wand is not known, but in a 
moment she snatched it from his hand, and gave him three lashes 
with it. The knight was momently changed to a hare, when the 
malicious and inveterate hag cried out, laughing, " Shu, Michael, 
rin or dee !" and baited all his o^vn dogs upon him. He was ex- 
tremely hard hunted, and was obliged to swim the river, and 
take shelter in the sewer of his own castle, from the fury of his 
pursuers, where he got leisure to change himself again to a man. 

Michael being extremely chagrined at having been thus out- 
witted, studied a deadly revenge ; and going over afterwards to 
hunt, he sent his man to Fauldshope to borrow some bread from 

Lucky to give to his dogs, for that he had neglected to feed 

them before he came from home. If she gave him the bread, he 
was to thank her and come away ; but if she refused it, he gave 
him a line written in red characters, which he was to lodge above 
the lintel as he came out. The servant found her baking of bread , 
as his master assured him he would, and delivered his message. 
She received him most ungraciously, and absolutely refused to 
give him any bread, alleging, as an excuse, that she had not as 



NOTES TO THE QUEEN'S WAKE. 179 

much as would serve her own reapers to dinner. The man said 
no more, but lodged the line as directed, and returned to his 

master. The powerful spell had the desired effect ; Lucky ■ 

instantly threw ofif her clothes, and danced round and round the 
fire like one quite mad, singing the while with great glee, 

" Master Michael Scott's man 
Cam seekin' bread an' gat nane." 

The dinner hour arrived, but the reapers looked in vain for their 
dame, who was wont to bring it to them to the field. The goodman 
sent home a servant girl to assist her, but neither did she return. 
At length he ordered them to go and take their dinner at home, 
for he suspected his spouse had taken some of her tirravees. All 
of them went inadvertently into the house, and, as soon as they 
passed beneath the mighty charm, were seized with the same 
mania, and followed the example of their mistress. The good- 
man, who had tarried behind, setting some shocks of corn, came 
home last ; and hearing the noise before he came near the house, he 
did not venture to go in, but peeped in at the window. There he 
beheld all his people dancing naked round and round the fire, 
and singing, "Master Michael Scott's man," with the most 
frantic wildness. His wife was by that time quite exhausted, and 
the rest were half trailing her around. She could only now and 
then pronounce a syllable of the song, which she did with a kind 
of scream, yet seemed as intent on the sport as ever. 

The goodman mounted his horse, and rode with all speed to the 
master, to inquire what he had done to his people which had put 
them all mad. Michael bade him take down the note from the 
lintel and burn it, which he did, and all the people returned to 
their senses. Poor Lucky died overnight, and Michael re- 
mained unmatched and alone in all the arts of enchantment and 
necromancy. 

Note XL 
The Spectre's Cradle Song.— 'P. 80. 

I mentioned formerly that the tale of Macgregor is founded on 
a popular Highland tradition ; so also is this Song of the Spectre 
in the introduction to it, which to me, at least, gives it a pecu- 
liar interest. As I was once travelling up Glendochart, attended 
by Donald Fisher, a shepherd of that country, he pointed out to 
me some curious green dens, by the side of the large rivulet 
which descends from the back of Ben Jkore, the name of which, 
in the Gaelic language, signifies the abode of the fairies. A native 
of that country, who is still living, happening to be benighted 
there one summer evening, without knowing that the place was 
haunted, wrapped himself in his plaid, and lay down to sleep till 
the morning-. About midnight he was awakened by the moat 



180 NOTES TO THE QUEEn's WAKE. 

enchanting music, and on listening, he heard it to be the voice 
of a woman singing to her child. She sung tlie verses twice over, 
so that next morning he had several of them by heart. Fisher 
had heard them often recited in Gaelic, and he said they were 
wild beyond human conception. He remembered only a few 
lines, which were to the same purport with the Spirit's Song here 
inserted, namely, that she (the singer) had brought her babe from 
the regions below to be cooled by the breeze of the world, and 
that they would soon be obliged to part, for the child was going 
to heaven, and she was to remain for a season in purgatory. I 
had not before heard any thing so truly romantic. 

Note XII. 
That the pine, wMchfor ages had shed a bright halo 
Afar on the mountains of Highland Glen Falo, 
Should Hither and fall ere the turn of yon moon, 
Smit through hy the canker of hated Colquhoim. — P. 82. 
The pine was the standard, and is still the crest of the ]Mac- 
gregors ; and it is well known that the proscription of that clan 
was occasioned by a slaughter of the Colquhouns, who were its 
constant and inveterate enemies. That bloody business let loose 
the vengeance of the country upon them, and had nearly ex- 
tirpated the name. The Campbells and the Grahams arose and 
hunted them down like wild beasts, until a Macgregor could no 
more be found. 

Note XIII. 
Earl Walter.— P. 85. 
This ballad is founded on a well-kno^vn historical fact. Hol- 
lingshed mentions it slightly in the following words: — "A 
Frenchman named Sir Anthony Darcie, knight, called after- 
wards Le Sire de la Bawtie, came through England into Scotland, 
to seek feats of arms. And coming to the king the four-and- 
twentie of September, the Lord Hamilton fought with him right 
valiantly, and so as neither of them lost any piece of honour." 

Note XIV. 
From this the Hamiltons of Clyde 
Their royal lineage draic. — P. 93. 
The Princess Margaret of Scotland was married to the Lord 
Hamilton when only sixteen years of age, who received the efirl- 
dom of Arran as her dowry. Hollingshed says, " Of this mar- 
riage, those of the house of Hamilton are descended, and are 
nearest of blood to the cro^vn of Scotland, as they pretend ; for 
(as saith Lesleus, lib. viii. p. 316) if the line of the Stewards fail, 
the crown is to come to them." 



NOTES TO THE QUEEN's WAKE. 181 

Note XV. 
Kilmeny.—F. 95. 

Beside the old tradition on which this ballad is founded, there 
are some modern incidents of a similar nature which cannot well 
be accounted for, yet are as well attested as any occurrence that 
has taken place in the present age. The relation may be amusing 
to some readers. 

A man in the parish of Traquair, and county of Peebles, was 
busied one day casting turf in a large open field, opposite to the 
mansion-house. The spot is well known, and still pointed out as 
rather unsafe ; his daughter, a child seven years of age, was play- 
ing beside him, and amusing him with her prattle. Chancing to 
ask a question at her, he was astonished at receiving no answer, 
and looking behind him, he perceived that his child was not there. 
He always averred that, as far as he could remember, she had 
been talking to him about half a minute before ; he was certain 
it was not above a whole one at most. It was in vain that he ran 
searching all about like one distracted, calling her name ; no trace 
of her remained. He went home in a state of mind that may be 
better conceived than expressed, and raised the people of the 
parish, who searched for her several days with the same success. 
Ever3' pool in the river, ever}^ bush and den on the mountains 
around, was searched in vain. It was remarked that the father 
never much encouraged the search, being thoroughly persuaded 
that she was carried away by some invisible being, else she could 
not have vanished so suddenly. As a last resource, he applied to 
the minister of Inverleithen, a neighbouring divine of exemplary 
piety and zeal in religious matters, who enjoined him to cause 
prayers to be offered to God for her in seven Christian churches, 
next Sabbath, at the same instant of time ; " and then," said he, 
•' if she is dead, God Avill forgive our sin in praying for the dead, 
as we do it through ignorance ; and if she is still alive, I will an- 
swer for it that all the devils in hell shall be unable to keep her." 
The injunction was punctually attended to. She was remembered 
in the prayers of all the neighbouring congregations next Sunday, 
at the same hour, and never were there such prayers for fervour 
heard before. There was one divine, in particular, Mr Davidson, 
who prayed in such a manner that all the hearers trembled. As 
the old divine foreboded, so it fell out. On that very day, and 
within an hour of the time on which these prayers were ofifered, 
the girl was found in the Flora wood, sitting, picking the bark 
from a tree. She could give no perfect account of the circum- 
stances which had befallen her, but she said she did not want 
plenty of meat, for that her mother came and fed her with milk 
and bread several times a-day, and sung her to sleep at night. 



182 NOTES TO THE QUEEN'S WAKE. 

Her skin had acquired a bluish cast, m hich wore gradually off in 
the course of a few weeks. Iler name was Salton ; she lived to 
be the mother of a family. 

Another circumstance, though it happened still later, is not 
less remarkable. A shepherd of Tushilaw, in the parish of Et- 
trick, whose name was Walter Dalgliesh, went out to the heights 
of that farm, one Sabbath morning, to herd the young sheep for 
his son, and let him to church. He took his own dinner along 
with him, and his son's breakfast. When the sermons were over, 
the lad went straight home, and did not return to his father. 
Night came on, but nothing of the old shepherd appeared. When 
it grew very late, his dog came home, seemed terrified, and re- 
fused to take any meat. The family were ill at ease during the 
night, especially as they had never loiown his dog leave him be- 
fore ; and early next morning the lad arose and went to the height 
to look after his father and his flock. He found his sheep all 
scattered, and his father's dinner unbroken, lying on the same 
spot where they had parted the day before. At the distance of 
twenty yards from the spot, the plaid which the old man wore 
was lying as if it had been flung from him, and a little farther 
on, in the same direction, his bonnet was found, but nothing of 
himself. The country people, as on all such occasions, rose in 
great numbers, and searched for him many days. My father and 
several old men, still alive, were of the party. He could not be 
found or heard of, neither dead nor alive, and at length they gave 
up all hope of ever seeing him more. 

On the twentieth day after his disappearance, a shepherd's 
v/ife, at a place called Berrybush, came in as the family was sit- 
ting do^vn to dinner, and said, that if it were possible to believe 
that Walter Dalgliesh was still in existence, she would say yon- 
der he was coming down the hill. They all ran out to watch the 
phenomenon, and as the person approached nigher, they perceived 
that it wasactually him, Avalking without his plaid and his bonnet. 
The place where he was first descried is not a mile distant from, 
that where he was last seen. When he came into the house, he 
shook hands with them all, asked for his family, and spoke as if 
he had been absent for years, and as if convinced something had 
befallen them. As they perceived something singular in his locks 
and manner, they unfortunately forbore asking him any ques- 
tions at first, but desired him to sit and share their dinner. This 
he readily complied with, and began to sup some broth with 
seeming eagerness. He had only taken one or two spoonfuls 
when he suddenly stopped, a kind of rattling noise was heard in 
his breast, and he sunk back in a faint. They put him to bed, 
and from that time forth he never spoke another word that any 



NOTES TO THE QUEEN'S WAKE. 183 

person could make sense of. lie v.^as removed to his own home, 
where he lingered a few weeks, and then died. What befell him 
remains to this day a mystery, and for ever must. 

NOTB XVI. 

But oft the lisVning groups stood still, 
For spirits talk'd along the hill.—'P. 106. 

The echoes of evening, which are occasioned by the voice or 
mirth of different parties not aware of each other, have a curious 
and striking effect. I have known some country people terrified 
almost out of their senses at hearing voices and laughter among 
cliffs, where they knew it impossible for human being to reach. 
Some of the echoes around Edinburgh are extremely grand ; what 
would they then be were the hills covered with wood ? I have 
witnessed nothing more romantic than from a situation behind 
the Pleasance, where all the noises of the city are completely 
hushed, to hear the notes of the drum, trumpet, and bugle, poured 
from the cliffs of Salsbury, and the viewless cannon thundering 
from the rock. The effect is truly sublime. 

Note XVIL 
Mary Scott— 'P, 108. 
This ballad is founded on the old song of " The grey Goss 
Hawk." The catastrophe is the same, and happens at the same 
place, namely, in St Mary's churchyard. The castle of Tushilaw, 
where the chief scene of the tale is laid, stood on a shelve of the 
hill which overlooks the junction of the rivers Ettrick and 
Rankleburn. It is a singular situation, and seems to have been 
chosen for the extensive prospect of the valley which it com- 
mands, both to the east and west. It was the finest old baronial 
castle of which the forest can boast, but the upper arches and 
turrets fell in, of late years, with a crash that alarmed the whole 
neighbourhood. It is now a huge heap of ruins. Its last inha- 
bitant was Adam Scott, who was long denominated in the south 
the King of the Border, but the courtiers called him the King of 
Thieves. King James V. acted upon the same principle with these 
powerful chiefs, most of whom disregarded his authority, as 
Bonaparte has done with the sovereigns of Europe. He always 
managed matters so as to take each of them single-handed — made 
a rapid and secret march— overthrew one or two of them — and 
then returned directly home till matters were ripe for taking the 
advantage of some other. He marched on one day from Edin- 
bm-gh to Meggatdale, accompanied by a chosen body of horse- 
men, surprised Peres Cockburn, a bold and capricious outlaw 
who tyrannised over those parts, hanged him over his ov/n gate, 



184 ' NOTES TO THE QXIEEN'S WAKE. 

sacked and burnt his castle of Henderland, and divided his lands 
between two of his principal followers, Sir James Stuart and the 
Lord Hume. From Henderland he marched across the moun- 
tains by a wild, unfrequented path, still called tlie King's Road, 
and appeared before the gates of Tushilaw about sunrise. Scott 
was completely taken by surprise ; he, however, rushed to arms 
with his few friends who were present, and, after a desperate but 
unequal conflict. King James overcame him, plundered his 
castle of riches and stores to a prodigious amount, hanged the old 
border king over a huge tree, which is still growing in the corner 
of the castle yard, and over which he himself had hanged many 
a one, carried his head with him in triumph to Edinburgh, and 
placed it on a pole over one of the ports. There was a long and 
deadly feud between the Scots and the Kers in those days ; the 
Pringles, Murrays, and others around, always joined with the 
Kers, in order to keep down the too powerful Scotts, who were 
not noted as the best of neighbours. 

Note XVUI. 
King Edward's dream. — P. 129. 

The scene of this ballad is on the banks of the Eden in Cumber- 
land, a day's march back from Burgh, on the sands of Solway, 
where King Edward I. died, in the midst of an expedition against 
the Scots, in which he had solemnly sworn to extirpate them as a 
nation. 

Note XIX. 
Dumlanrig.—F. 134. 

This ballad relates to a well-known historical fact, of which 
tradition has preserved an accurate and feasible detail. The 
battles took place two or three years subsequent to the death of 
King James V. I have heard that it is succinctly related by some 
historian, but I have forgot who it is. Hollingshed gives a long 
bungling account of the matter, but places the one battle a year 
before the other; whereas it does not appear that Lennox made 
two excursions into Nithsdale, at the head of the English forces, 
or fought two bloody battles with the laird of Dumlanrig on the 
same ground, as the historian would insinuate. He says, that 
Dumlanrig, after pursuing them cautiously for some time, was 
overthrown in attempting to cross a ford of the river too rashly, 
that he lost two of his principal kinsmen and two hundred of his 
followers, had several spears broken upon his body, and escaped 
only by the fleetness of his horse. The battle which took place 
next night, he relates as having happened next year ; but it must 
be visible to every reader that he is speaking of the same incidents 
in the annals of both years. In the second engagement, he ac- 
knowledges that Dumlanrig defeated the English horse, which ho 



NOTES TO THE QUEEN's WAKE. 185 

attributes to a desertion from the latter ; but that, after pursuing 
them as far as Dalswinton, they were joined by the foot, and 
retrieved the da5\ The account given of the battles by Lesleus 
and Fran. Thin seems to have been so different, that they have 
misled the chronologer ; the names of the toA%Tis and villages 
appearing to him so different, whereas a local knowledge of the 
country %vould have convinced him that both accounts related to 
the same engagements. 

Note XX. 

The Abbot M'Kinnon.—V. 150. 

To describe the astonishing scenes to which this romantic tale 

relates, Icolmkill and Staffa, so well kno-v^Ti to the ciii-ious, would 

only be multiplying pages to no purpose. 

Note XXI. 

Oh, wise ivas the founder, and well said he, 

" Where there are women, mischief must be .'"—P. 151. 

St Columba placed the nuns on an island at a little distance 
from I, as the natives call lona. He would not suffer either a cow 
or a woman to set foot on it ; " For where there are cows," said 
he, " there must be women ; and where there are women, there 
must be mischief." 

Note XXII. 
The harp ofEttrick rung again.— "P. 1C3. 

That some notable bard flourished in Ettrick Forest in that 
age, is evident from the numerous ballads and songs which relate 
to places in that country, and incidents that happened there. 
]Many of these are of a very superior cast. " Outlaw Murray," 
" Young Tarn Lean of Carterhaugh," " Jamie Telfer i' the fair 
Dodhead," '* The dowy Downs of Yarrow," and many others, are 
of the number. Dunbar, in his lament for the bards, merely 
mentions him by the title of Etrick ; more of him we know not. 
Note XXIII. 
Gardyn is croicn'd with garlands gay, 
And bears the envied prize away. — P. 1C3. 

Queen Mary's harp, of most curious workmanship, was found 
in the house of Lude, on the banks of the Garry in Athol, as was 
the old Caledonian harp. They were both brought to that house 
by a bride, whom the chieftain of Lude married from the family 
of Gardyn of Banchory (now Garden of Troup). It was defaced of 
all its ornaments, and Queen Mary's portrait, set in gold and 
jewels, during the time of the last rebelUon. How it came into 
the possession of that family is not known, at least traditious 



186 NOTES TO THE QUEEn's WAKE. 

vary considerably regarding the incident ; but there is every rea- 
son to suppose that it was given in consequence of some musical 
excellency in one or other of the Gardyns, for it may scarcely be 
deemed that the royal donor would confer so rich and so curious 
an instrument on one who could make no use of it. So far does 
the tale correspond with truth ; and there is, besides, a farther 
coincidence of which I was not previously aware : I find that 
Queen Mary actually gave a grand treat at Holyrood House, at 
the very time specified in the poem, where great proficiency was 
displayed both in music and dancing. 

KOTE XXIV. 
Cooynh is a Scots Lowland term, and used to distinguish all such 
hills as are scooped out on one side in the form of a crescent. The 
bosom of the hill, or that portion which lies within the lunated 
verge, is always denominated the coomb. 

Note XXV. 
Shaio is likewise a Lowland term, and denotes the snout, or 
brow of a hill ; but the part so denominated is always understood 
to be of a particular form, broad at the base, and contracted to a 
point above. Each of these terms convey to the mind a strong 
picture of the place so designed ; both are very common. 

Note XXVL 
Juaw signifies a detached hill of any description, but piore gene- 
rally such as are of a round or conical form. It seems to bear 
the same acceptation in the Lowlands of Scotland, as BcJi does in 
the Highlands. The term is supposed to have had its derivation 
from the circumstance of the ancient inhabitants of the country 
distributing the law on the tops of such hills ; and where no one 
of that form was nigh, artificial mounds were raised in the neigh- 
bourhood of towns for that purpose. Hence they were originally 
called Law-hills; but, by a natural and easy contraction, the laws 
and the hills of the country came to signify the same thing. A 
little afiBnity may still be traced. Both were eff"ective in imped- 
ing the progress of a hostile iuvader, while the hardy native 
em-mounted both without difficulty and without concern. 

Note XXVIL 
Strone (only once used) is that hill which terminates the range. 
It is a Highland term, but common in the middle districts of 
Scotland. 

Note.XXVIIL 

Ben is likewise a Highland term, and denotes a mountain of a 
pyramidal form, which stands unconnected with others. 



KOTES TO THE QUEEN'S WAKE. 187 

Note XXIX. 
Dale is the coiu'se of a Lowland river, with its adjacent hills 
and vallej'S. It conveys the same meaning as strath does in the 
Highlands. 

Note XXX. 
Wale (only once used) is a Hebridean term, and signifies the 
verge or brim of the mountain. It is supposed to be modern, and 
used only in those maritime districts, as having a reference to the 
gunnel, or wale of a ship or boat. 

Note XXXI. 

Cory, or Correi, is a northern term, and is invariably descrip- 
tive of a gi'een hollow part of the moimtain, from which a rivulet 
descends. 

Note XXXII. 

If there is any other word or term peculiar to Scotland, I am 
not aware of it. The songs of the two bards, indeed, who affect 
to imitate the ancient manner, abound with old Scotch words 
and terms, which, it is presumed, the rhyme, the tenor of the 
verses, and the narrative, will illustrate, though they may not be 
found in any glossary of that language. These are, indeed, gene- 
rally so notoriously deficient and absurd, that it is painful for 
any one conversant in the genuine old provincial dialect to look 
into them. 

Ignorant, however, as I am of every dialect save my mother 
tongue, I imagine that I understand so much of the English lan- 
guage as to perceive that its muscular strength consists in the 
energy of its primitive stem — in the trunk from which all its 
foliage hath sprung, and around which its exuberant tendrils are 
all entwined and interwoven — I mean the remains of the ancient 
Teutonic. On the strength of this conceived principle, which 
may haply be erroneous, I have laid it down as a maxim, that the 
greater number of these old words and terms that can be intro- 
duced with propriety into our language the better. To this my 
casual innovations must be attributed. The authority of Grahame 
and Scott has of late rendered a few of these old terms legitimate. 
If I had been as much master of the standard language as they, I 
would have introduced ten times more. 



THE EKD. 



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